


I Regret That Now

by Kriegsandharris



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kriegsandharris/pseuds/Kriegsandharris
Summary: Florence and Isa navigate 2020 and take an honest look at their past.
Relationships: Isabella Summers/Florence Welch
Comments: 21
Kudos: 47





	1. Beginnings: 2004-2006

**Author's Note:**

> Broad content warning: heavy drug/alcohol usage
> 
> This is a work of fiction based on real people, and is not intended to speculate on any real, private events of the characters involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huuuuuge shoutout to my friend slytherinhowl for all of her wonderful input and editing. I promised myself when this all began that I would never do a quarantine fic and yet here we are... oops. I hope you enjoy!

_ March, 2019 _

_ Antwerp _

Stood behind a velvet stanchion rope, Isabella Summers looks up with a reverent awe at the huge triptych in front of her; bolstered by a group of muscular men, Jesus is being put up onto the cross, his bloodied hands already nailed onto the wood. Below the men on one side are women who look on with worry evident in their frail faces—on the other side, a large, black horse wildly carries another man leading a group of people. It is a chaotic scene, but standing under the huge piece, Isa feels a sort of warmth and contentment that she hasn’t felt in months. 

Touring is lonely if she’s being honest with herself. There is no part of sharing a small space with people she is not particularly close with that she enjoys. Sure, she is thankful to be on tour with an internationally famous band that she had a huge part in establishing, but it is all starting to get a bit boring, especially during this current tour for an album she had no part in creating. The connection she used to have with the band and with the music just isn’t there, and she is overly conscious of it. 

This boredom and apathy is definitely not helped by the fact that Isa had recently given up drinking for a  _ second _ time either. Whereas she used to go and simply drink herself into oblivion when boredom knocked, she now finds herself staring at the ceiling in a tour bus. The only breaks from this boredom she gets are when she manages to find art galleries within walking distance—like on this particular day when she is able to walk herself to Peter Paul Rubens’ house, just a short distance across Antwerp.

From inside her bag, she feels her phone buzz. Still staring at the painting, she reaches into her bag and fishes out her phone before briefly glancing at the screen to find a text from Dion.  _ You coming back? We’re leaving in an hour _ , it reads. Isa quietly scoffs before throwing it into her bag. It was becoming more and more frustrating to find herself in various parts of the world with such limited time to actually see them, and she almost resents the fact that she needs to start walking if she doesn’t want to have to find a way to Germany on her own.

Isa takes one last, long look at the painting, and then pulls her jacket on before walking into the dark of night, the streets only illuminated by the hundreds of stars above.

“How was it?” Florence asks a bit apathetically, barely glancing up from her book once Isa arrives back on the bus. She is already dressed in her pyjamas, and Isa wonders why she doesn’t get out of the bus and  _ do _ anything when they have free time. Florence and Isa are sharing a bus with Dion and Hazel, two talented musicians that Rob had found through a music agency to go on tour. Isa is grateful for their presence, a sort of protective barrier during her awkward interactions with Florence that only seem to grow more awkward as time passes. Isa isn’t quite sure what it is, it isn’t like they had any sort of falling out—at least recently—but Florence has gone quiet and is now at a point that she barely even looks at Isa. 

“It was good,” Isa replies equally as apathetically. She shuffles beyond the tiny kitchenette to her bunk, past Dion and Hazel who are each tucked away behind the curtains of their own bunks, and opens her small drawer of clothes. On top of a few sets of pyjamas is a neatly folded t-shirt, a Velvet Underground shirt that Florence had stolen from her probably close to a decade ago. She furrows her eyebrows, and then pulls it out. 

“Flo,” she says quietly, not wanting to wake Hazel or Dion, “this somehow ended up in my drawer. Do you want me to put it back in yours?” From the middle of the bus, Isa holds the soft, black shirt up for Florence to see.

  
Florence glances up, and then shakes her head with the slightest of smiles. “No, it’s yours Iz,” she says with a little laugh, quickly returning her gaze to her book. “I forgot to give it back.” Her bare feet are resting on a small partition between two windows, and Isa feels her heart drop as she realizes Florence doesn’t have it in her to even discuss the implications of this little return. 

—

_ January, 2004 _

_ Peckham _

The parties that the habitants of Isa’s squat put on started out simply enough. 

They were usually in the basement of an old church. Lights and decorations were carefully strung up by Camberwell kids, and a few people from Saint Martins took care of the music and photographing the events. Maybe three-hundred people showed up on a good night, and nothing ever got too out of hand. The police had only turned up once out of what must have been fifty parties, only telling them to turn the music down. 

When Matthew Stone figured out how to break into a six-story co-op with a derilated church, a gym complete with saunas, and an old nightclub on top of some long-abandoned shops, the potential for the parties rose astronomically, however. 

Along with the newfound party-potential, Isa was grateful to move out of the cupboard that she had been living in; as glamorous as sleeping on an old recliner in a one square meter space was, she was excited to finally have a large room that she shared with only one roommate. 

“We should have a rager,” Dave said one night, after they had moved the majority of their belongings out of the old place and into the abandoned rooms occupying the top three stories of the co-op they now found themselves in. A blunt was being passed around, and everyone was too blissfully relaxed to thoroughly think through what could go wrong. “We have the space for it now, let's put the word out.”

And so they did. It was the week after Christmas, and everyone was practically jumping at the chance to get away from their families. Isa had helped the group collect discarded Christmas trees from neighborhoods around Peckham, and then drag them up the staircase to the old nightclub. In one room, they set them all up, creating a small forest with a projection of a moon overhead. 

Matthew helped Isa set up her sound system, littering speakers that had been collected through the years throughout the space, and someone was recruited to connect them to the lights. 

A lot of time was spent cleaning the space up; getting random debris off the floors, making the televisions hung up on every wall stop fuzzing, and setting up usable tables to hold alcohol. 

“This is gonna be good,” Dave said after a long day of working, just a few hours before the start time had been set. “We might see a thousand tonight, it’s time for your big break, Bella.”   
  


By one in the morning, there were over two thousand people in the building. Overflow had been directed up the stairs, Isa’s music more than loud enough to penetrate the thin floorboards. 

“You’re killing it!” Tara, her roommate, yelled to her at one point. Isa beamed from her space behind the table, wearing a completely mismatched skirt and cropped tank-top, complete with a gaudy necklace and a snapback perched on top of her head. Isa knew the exact nineties hits that would please the crowd, and seamlessly melded them together as the night went on. Of course, there were a few surprise performances from friends who would badly rap over a quickly improvised beat, and even a random young girl who could sing surprisingly well even while  _ incredibly _ intoxicated.

After a few hours, some guys took over the table, and Isa was happy to have an opportunity to get away. She caught up with her friends by quickly taking shots, one after another, and was soon lost in the lights and bustle of the dance floor. 

“You did so good,” Tara said to Isa before grabbing her by the cheeks and quickly slipping her tongue into Isa’s mouth. Isa was reluctant to admit that she liked the attention she got from her friends who were loudly encouraging them, but she made a show of kissing Tara nonetheless. She wasn’t particularly concerned if Tara  _ actually _ liked her—that could wait for the morning. For now, she was happy to make out with anyone. 

After ungracefully dancing for a while, she was pulled into the forest room.

She had to admit, for as much as she complained while dragging the christmas trees up the stairs, it was pretty fucking cool to have a makeshift forest in the middle of the place. 

The branches of the trees shook with each beat of bass, and Isa became almost hypnotized watching them, until she noticed the young girl from earlier sitting alone in the corner of the room. 

She looked wildly out of place; for one, she was  _ definitely _ underage, a bold move considering the drugs that were passed around at these types of parties. Then there was the fact that she was wearing a plaid skirt under a white jumper that looked like it could have come directly out of Isa’s grandmother’s closet. 

“You alright?” Isa asked, crouching down to sit next to the girl. They made eye contact, and Isa studied the girl’s sharp green eyes and flushed red skin. 

“I’m good—this is really fucking cool,” she replied, turning her attention back towards the trees. “Weren’t you on the music?”

“Yeah,” Isa laughed. “The guys took it over. Gave me a chance to actually enjoy the night.”    


The girl nodded. “You live here?” 

“Yeah,” Isa replied, thinking about how appalled this girl would be to know she had been living in a glorified cupboard for the past two years. “Wait,” Isa said, suddenly recognizing a face on a badge the girl was wearing, “who is that man?”   


“This one?” the girl questioned, her hand flying towards the pin on her jumper. “It’s my uncle. Craig Brown, if you’ve heard of him? We’re not actually related, though.”   


“Craig Brown!” Isa replied, nodding her head with a smile. “That’s dope.”   


“Isa!” Matthew called from across the room. “We need you!”   


“Duty calls,” Isa said, rolling her eyes. “I hope you enjoy the forest,” she said with a laugh as she got up and trotted towards Matthew. 

“We need you back on the tracks. Oh! Also there’s a dude from the C.I.A. here,” he said casually, leading Isa back towards the sound system.

Isa scoffed with a laugh as she pushed her way through the crowd of people in the dark haze. “No, there’s not. What are you on?”

As if on cue, a large man in a black suit with an earpiece pushed past her. “Oh my god,” Isa said, turning back to make sure she was seeing this correctly. “Why?”   


“They said they’re scoping things out for someone, not here to shut down anything,” Matthew said with a shrug. 

Maybe it wasn’t the C.I.A., but the party did get shut down when police came and forced people out. Upon hearing that there was the possibility of a one-thousand pound fine for the “major fire hazard” that the Christmas trees presented, Matthew and Tara quickly organized a line of people to pass them through the space and out of the window before evidence could be collected. 

After all was said and done, Isa was exhausted, retiring to her room with Tara and climbing into bed without caring about the fact that she hadn’t changed, or that her makeup was running down her face. 

As she laid in bed, the only thing she could hear was that young girl’s voice singing Backstreet Boys over a beat. Eventually, Isa finally found sleep with the girl’s effortless vibrato ringing in her ears.

—

_ November, 2019 _

_ Camberwell _

It’s a miraculously clear afternoon and Florence Welch is walking through London, desperately trying to find the new cafe her sister had insisted on going to on her phone’s map while trying not to look like a tourist. 

It feels as if she left London for a year, and now the same streets she grew up on are unrecognizable. Buildings have been demolished and replaced by new ones. Dilapidated factories are now upscale flats that she would probably struggle to afford, even with her highly generous income. Parks that she used to frequent as a child have been repurposed into athletic fields and arboretums. Every single landmark that she tries to find has vanished or changed to the point of being nearly unrecognizable. 

After getting absolutely nowhere with Grace’s directions, she finds a bench and sits down so she can actually look at her phone. She wraps her puffy jacket around herself a little tighter as she watches her breath form little clouds in front of her face. She types in the address into the app, and realizes she’s just one block off from where she should be. Getting more and more anxious that people are judging her lack of direction, she pockets her phone and picks up her pace towards the cafe. It’s stupid that she’s worried about looking like a tourist, she realizes after a few minutes of walking, when her main concern should be being recognized for exactly who she is. 

Being famous never came easily to Florence. The first time she was not only recognized, but additionally asked for a photo, she awkwardly mumbled something incoherent and did her best to put on a half-hearted smile before placing her basket of groceries down and speed walking out of the store she was in. 

Growing up, she had always read about musicians being gracious and kind and humble towards people who approached them. The thing is though, she never expected to reach that kind of fame. She expected to disappear as one of many faces in a huge band, not to be a fucking  _ frontwoman _ of a band marked with her own name, who then went on to achieve international fame. 

It’s not as bad now as it was eight or nine years ago—back then, she was lucky to be able to even get anywhere on her bike wearing a hat and sunglasses. Now it seems rare that anyone approaches her, Londoners quickly moving their interest to their new celebrities after her fame had peaked. 

“Take the long way?” her sister, Grace, quips after Florence shuffles through the door. Her cheeks are red and she awkwardly tugs her jacket off; despite the cold outside, she is burning up after nearly running to the cafe. 

“No, I just can’t keep up with this place anymore,” Florence says with a little laugh as someone shows them to a table. “Camberwell is unrecognizable.”

They spend time catching up, a face-to-face conversation a special rarity given how much Florence had been traveling. Florence tells Grace about the long days spent tying up loose ends of the tour, and Grace tells her about her new ventures in event planning and managing a few restaurants with her husband, Dan. Florence is especially happy to listen to Grace gush over her daughter, a little three year old named Bonnie who is newly obsessed with all things animals. 

They make their way through lunch, laughing at each other’s stories and debating over what spices Florence’s dish contains. Florence feels content sitting with Grace; there is something relieving about the fact that they are sitting together, actually  _ eating _ their food rather than staring at it.

  
“So what’s next?” Grace asks as they depart the cafe and start making their way towards Grace’s house. 

“Nothing,” Florence says with a laugh. “Absolutely  _ nothing _ . It’s glorious.”    


Grace smiles and shakes her head. “You say that now, and you’ll somehow manage to be back on tour by January.”   


Florence feigns offense before resigning with a sigh. “I’m serious this time. I’m locking myself in my house and  _ relaxing _ this year.”

After spending the rest of the afternoon with Grace and Bonnie, Florence walks back home and quietly starts making herself dinner. While she loved and misses the constant company and the fact that nearly every need she had was taken care of on tour, she likes the solitary that being in her own space brings. It gives her a certain sense of independence that she lacked when she was younger, and makes her feel good to know she can in fact survive alone. 

—

_ December, 2006 _

_ Crystal Palace _

“Flo, stop, we have shit to get done!” Isa whined as Florence sat cross legged on the floor. They were at Isa’s new studio, which had been lovingly named the “schloft,” given its odd appearance. It wasn’t the nicest of places—Isa had been instructed to not do any extensive repairs given that the complex was probably going to fall to the ground any day now. However, it was able to fit all of the various records and tapes that Isa’s father had made through the years, all of them carefully lined up on shelves. 

“These are fucking amazing,” Florence said, nodding her head along to a tape she had loaded into a deck. “Is this your dad?”

Isa rolled her eyes. Her dad loved to find instrumentals of songs that he felt fit certain poems, and then record himself dramatically reading them over the song. “Yes,” Isa replied hastily. “Put it down and let’s start recording!”   


Florence groaned and hesitantly put down the tape before walking over to the new mic she had gone half in on with Isa. After starting to work together a few months ago, they quickly realized that this arrangement held potential, and were now working together almost full time. 

With a few clicks of the desktop, Isa nodded to Florence, and a track filled her headphones.    


Isa loved listening to Florence’s voice—it was entirely effortless and yet completely raw. There was a quality to it that couldn’t be explained. Isa had never shown interest in working with a singer, but when Isa caught Florence hanging out in the space next to hers as her boyfriend got his guitar repaired, Isa couldn’t help but recognize her from the party that was well over two years ago now. She quickly reintroduced herself and invited Florence to come record, desperate to find a good vocalist to work with. 

“This one going on MySpace?” Florence asked once Isa was happy with the takes they had. Florence’s chin was resting on her shoulder as she looked over what Isa was doing on her computer.    


“I think so,” she replied, moving tracks around and adjusting sliders that only confused Florence. They listened to it a few times through, carefully searching for anything that sounded off, and once they were both satisfied, Isa compressed the file and waited for it to finish. 

“How’s school going?” Isa asked earnestly, amazed that Florence was able to balance being at Camberwell, being in a band, and recording with her all at the same time. She had become oddly protective over the quirky 20 year old she had managed to steal away to record with.

Florence bobbed her head back and forth. “It’s… going. I’m kind of struggling with these 3D classes, it’s just not my thing.”   


“What is your thing?”   


“Illustration. I love just working with pens and paint.”   


Isa nodded. “The general education classes at Saint Martin’s were rough,” she said, referencing her own experience in getting a fine arts degree. “Like, even though I was doing a film concentration, I had to do  _ everything _ , including the art courses. Those kicked my ass.”

Florence shook her head. “God, I forget that you did fucking  _ film _ in school. What exactly  _ aren’t _ you good at?”

“Art!” Isa said with a laugh, her eyes wide. “And  _ singing _ . This is why we work well together.”

—

_ January, 2020 _

_ Los Angeles _

Los Angeles has been colder and lonelier than Isa expected. 

When she came here in 2012, it had been a grand adventure, fueled by parties and friends and beautiful, sunny weather. 

Now though, it just seems sad as she drags one of her two suitcases up the steps of a beautiful house in the valley. For the past month, she has been couch surfing with old acquaintances from her previous adventures in L.A., but yesterday an old friend offered her his house until he got back in June, the only cost to Isa being that she has to water his plants. 

It was a complete miracle, and Isa feels a little out of place as she looks up and down what can only be described as a small mansion. 

Dressed in a pair of matching joggers and hoodie, she slowly walks around the place, inspecting the pristine white furniture and the floor to ceiling windows covered by automated blinds that open with the simple push of a button on a remote. She opens them and finds a gorgeous view of the city. If she squints hard enough, she swears she can see the Hollywood sign. 

After a sufficient amount of gawking at how absurdly nice the house is, Isa once again drags her suitcases up a set of stairs and settles into the guest room. 

She throws herself back on the bed, extending her limbs in every direction as she stares at the high ceiling above her. 

She thinks about all the work she has ahead of her for this new show that has brought her on as a score producer. This is a  _ huge _ break—composition had intrigued Isa for some time now, and the opportunity to produce new music and collaborate with new artists while getting  _ paid _ for it was beyond exciting.

Exciting, but lonely. Ironically, she misses the loudness of touring—listening to Aku and Rob have arguments about sports and music, and Dion’s laugh, and Hazel’s little itineraries for their days off. 

As much as it pains her to admit it, she almost even misses Florence’s quiet presence, her quirky observations, and her laugh that would reverberate throughout the whole bus. It is odd, Isa thinks, moving from a tiny bus with four people living in it, to living alone in a house bigger than ten of her flats combined. 

She wonders if it would be less lonely if she was dating someone. Maybe she should get one of those apps, she thinks. Surely the dating crowd is big enough in L.A.

She hasn’t dated anyone since Florence, which is absurd considering how quickly Florence seemed to be able to move on. If the way they ended doesn’t seem to bother Florence, Isa thinks, then why should it bother her?

Sure, it had been the ugliest breakup she could possibly imagine.

Sure, Florence had gone and found a boy not three weeks after they ended things.

Sure, they had never  _ really _ discussed it after that god awful night that Isa left and never came back. 

But why should it stop her from trusting people again?   


Isa sighs and sits down as she tries to stop herself from thinking about it. Really, she has every reason to be traumatized from that breakup. _ I wonder if there’s a therapist around here _ , she thinks to herself as she gazes at the skyline.

Seven years is a long time to be alone, but Isa resigns to the fact that it is probably for the best anyway. She doesn’t want to go through that mess ever again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back (sort of). I have some time off school and can finally get back to writing for a bit. Most of this is already written so hopefully it will get up quick. I hope you're all doing well! x


	2. Only Lesbians in Paris: 2008

_ March, 2008 _

_ Paris _

Still high off of the adrenaline from a good performance, Isa didn’t give much thought to the fact that Florence’s tongue was nearly halfway down her throat. The club was dark enough, and Rob and Chris were so drunk that Isa half-expected  _ them _ to start making out at any moment. 

Eventually, the song blaring in the background changed, and Florence reluctantly pulled away from Isa. 

She laced her fingers through one of Isa’s hands as the lights bounced around the club. “You want to go?” she asked loudly over the music. 

Isa scoffed a little bit as she adjusted her dark hair over her shoulder. It was only a little past one, and as much as her feet were killing her, she didn’t want to miss out on a night out in Paris. “Where?”

“The hotel,” Florence said plainly.

Isa smiled, looking back at Rob and Chris before turning back to Florence. “You think they’ll be okay on their own?”   


“They’ll be fine,” Florence replied almost pleadingly, her eyes bearing into Isa’s. “Come on.” 

Finally, Isa gave in, and soon enough they were speed walking through the streets of Paris, small strings of fairy-lights illuminating their faces as they recounted their set, and the reactions to each of the songs, and how grateful they were that the sound system ended up working out regardless of their shaky sound check. 

When they reached the hotel, Isa thought about how nice it was going to be to finally get some sleep after nearly 36 straight hours of partying, rehearsing, partying some more, playing, and finally, well,  _ partying _ . As she walked into the elevator, the greatest question on Isa’s mind was whether or not she had enough energy to take off her makeup. Once they got in the elevator, however, her makeup was quickly forgotten about as Florence pushed her against the wall and resumed almost exactly where they had left off in the club.

“Oh,” Isa said almost instinctively just before Florence’s lips reached hers. 

Florence worked gently yet fast, making the most of the ten or so seconds it took to reach the third floor. Once the elevator stopped under their feet, Florence quickly pulled away, once again taking Isa’s hand in hers and pulling her forward. 

“ _ Bonsoir _ ,” she said with a polite smile to a passing man dressed in a suit. For a twenty-one year old, she was  _ smooth _ Isa thought as she mindlessly followed Florence to her room. 

Once Florence managed to get the door open, she pulled Isa inside and once again wasted no time rejoining their lips. Her phone and wallet were unceremoniously dropped to the floor as she ran her hands up and down Isa’s sides.

Isa wasn’t sure what was happening—Florence had kissed her maybe two or three times before, but Florence kissed  _ all _ of her friends.    


She definitely wasn’t sure, however, that Florence pulled all her friends into dark hotel rooms before slyly removing their clothing. 

As Florence tugged at Isa’s shirt that had at one point been neatly tucked into her skirt, Isa hesitated with a small laugh.    
“What is happening?” she whispered as Florence pulled the shirt over her head. She looked up to Florence, her hands still resting on her hips, trying to get a read on her. Florence was blushing ever so slightly, as if she had just been woken from a dream. Her wavy hair was all over the place, likely a result of the clumsy dancing that had ensued only hours earlier. 

“I’m...sorry. We can just go to bed if you want,” Florence said bashfully, moving her hands to Isa’s shoulders. 

Isa looked into her eyes and then simply shook her head before quickly placing a hand on Florence’s stomach and pushing her into the opposite wall. 

Isa savored the feeling of Florence’s hands in her hair, and on her cheeks, and running across her breasts. After a few minutes, she made quick work of the dress Florence was wearing, carelessly letting it fall to the floor before leading her to the bed. 

The sex didn’t last too long—they were both exhausted and after awhile, their deep, shaky breaths and sweaty skin were a mutual sign that their desires had been satisfied. With shaking hands, they resigned to languidly kissing each other until even that felt like it took too much effort.

Lying naked next to Isa somehow felt even more intimate than the sex itself to Florence; she had never had sex with a woman before, and there was something so precious about the intimacy of sharing her body with someone who cared about her desires as much as their own. Now, listening to Isa’s steady breaths, she felt like she had shared a part of herself that would forever entangle them.

“That was really nice, Flo,” Isa whispered after awhile, breaking the peaceful silence.

Florence turned her head and smiled, a little crack in the window illuminating a line over one of her eyes.

“Yeah, it was. You knew what you were doing.”   


Isa felt her cheeks go warm as she tried to figure out a way to respond to that. “Thanks? I guess?” she replied in a meek voice as a slightly embarrassed smile crept across her face. 

“Are you…? You know...” Florence said with a nervous laugh, looking up and down Isa’s face. Isa bit her lip and smiled, looking towards the ceiling.

“You’re going to ask that  _ now _ ?” she replied with a cackle. 

“Just wondering!” Florence said defensively, reaching across the space between them to move Isa’s hair out of her face. 

“Yeah. I mean, I… like girls, if that’s what you’re asking,” Isa finally answered. “Are you?”   


“I dunno. I like  _ you _ , and  _ that, _ ” she says with emphasis, running a finger across Isa’s collarbones, “was the best sex of my life, so I’m not going to give it too much thought.”

“You’re only twenty-one, I doubt I’ve had too much competition,” Isa laughed with a blush.

“I guess,” Florence said with a smile, quickly leaning in to slide her lips against Isa’s. “And it’s looking like you’re not going to have any competition for a while.”

Isa’s throat went tight at that statement. This was going to be a long, long year. 

—

_ March, 2020 _

_ Camberwell _

_ did you see the new announcement? fuck this is getting real _

As it turns out, Florence hasn’t seen the new announcement. Her heart sinks a little bit as she rereads the text from Flynn before quickly pulling up her web browser and tapping out  _ covid london  _ into the search box. 

She is immediately met with three articles, each outlining the newly imposed “lockdown.”

Florence has never really been a homebody; even when she was alone, she highly preferred going out and walking around than sitting in her house. The world feels less lonely, she had learned, when you deliberately surround yourself with people.

As much as she loathed touring, it meant never being alone. Despite the constant traveling, and the small hotel rooms, and the feeling of never being still, it was nice to have friends constantly by her side. Just knowing that there was always someone to go to brought her a huge amount of peace.

In London, though, her friends are all working, living the normal, simple lives that they all envisioned for themselves when they were younger. Her siblings all have work, or school, or a mix of the two, and her parents are so busy she’s not entirely sure they even know she’s home. She likes to try to convince herself that she likes being alone, that it’s a sign of growth after not growing up for the entirety of her twenties, but the truth is she’s just plain  _ lonely _ .

Her house is filled to the brim with  _ stuff _ ; family heirlooms, mismatched furniture that she bought second hand, two rooms worth of clothes, a kitchen full of spices and cookbooks she never uses—she could go on forever. It’s nice, having plenty of interesting things to look at, but all the mementos from people she’s met from around the world only make her lonelier. To know that hundreds of people care enough about her to give her letters and books and intricate crafts, yet still be alone at the end of the day, is enough to bring tears to the back of her eyes.

She types out a simple reply of  _ shit _ before hitting send to Flynn. In the past few months, it had become evident that he was trying to make amends for their quick breakup over two years ago now. There was nothing ugly about it; he was busy recording, she was about to go on tour, and they mutually agreed that it would be just too exhausting to try and keep up a relationship on top of their busy schedules. In a certain way, Florence was also just utterly perplexed by how  _ nice _ he was. 

She had never dated anyone who validated her every weird worry about the world, or the self-hate spirals that would go on for days. He did though, and in a strange way, it bothered her. She  _ needed _ someone to call her out on her shit, to walk away when she was being absurd. She needed someone who loved her enough to sit her down and tell her to stop being so goddamn mean to herself. 

As much as she hates to admit it, she needed someone like Isa. 

Before she has too much time to reminisce, there is an unmistakable triple knock at the door. 

She curses under her breath before collecting her messy hair into a neat knot at the nape of her neck. She ruffles her fringe into its correct position, and then begrudgingly opens the door.

“Flynn!” she says with a sort of fake enthusiasm as he shuffles into the house. “Was not expecting you,” she says with a sort of polite bite, still wearing her pyjamas and a shawl at one in the afternoon. 

“I was just at the store and figured I’d stop by with your necessities before we’re all captives,” he says, a bag in each of his hands.    


Florence sighs. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” she says, taking one and leading him towards the kitchen. “This whole thing is fucking crazy.”   


“Yeah,” he says, unloading the bag full of breads, oats, fruits, and other staples of her diet. “You sure you’re gonna be okay here by yourself?” he asks, referencing the conversation they had a few days ago about how she would hold up if they hypothetically had to go into lockdown. 

Florence tilts her head and smiles sweetly. “I will be just fine. Promise.”   


Flynn puts the last of the food away into its proper place, and then awkwardly stands across from Florence, who is gripping the counter behind her so tightly her knuckles are pale white. 

“So,” he says as Florence raises her eyebrows with a smile and an imperceptible amount of annoyance, “you know you can call me if you—”   


“Need anything, I know,” Florence breathes out, wanting nothing more than to get him out of here. Even though she was guilty of doing the same at one point, she hates almost nothing more than people showing up uninvited. “I’ll call.”

Flynn nods, and then moves forward to wrap Florence in a hug. “Take care of yourself, Flo.”   


Florence bites her lip and rolls her eyes before pulling away with a huge, convincing grin on her face. “I will. Now get home, I’m sure the dog is starving.” He laughs a little before quickly making his way out of the kitchen and shutting the front door behind him. 

As soon as she hears the door click shut, Florence loudly exhales and lightly taps the back of her head against her cabinet. It seems that all of her exes come back to haunt her—if not in her own head, then in person, at her house. 

Two years with no one to answer to, no one to impress, no one to have to keep up with had been  _ glorious _ , and she wishes Flynn could just move on like she had. Sure, she misses the intimacy and the domesticity of it all, but the satisfaction of taking a good nap without another body to wake her from her light sleep  _ almost _ makes up for the lack of it. 

She puts her hands over her face, pulling the skin down as she tries to wipe the embarrassment from her head. She squeezes her eyes tight and then relaxes them, shaking her head as she pushes herself up from the countertop.    
  


—

_ May, 2008 _

_ London _

They had five minutes until their show was about to begin, and Florence’s dress was bunched up around her waist as Isa stroked every inch of her skin. They hadn’t really discussed the hookup in Paris, or the countless makeout sessions that had followed it, but Florence was still hesitant to make Isa stop at this point. 

“Iz, we have a show to do,” Florence breathed out unconvincingly, her voice echoing in the tiled bathroom.

“I can make it quick.”   


Florence bit her lip and shook her head as she stood up from her slouched position on the wall. At that moment, the door creaked open, and Florence thanked god she had put an end to it before a guest joined the mix. “Later. For now, let’s just pretend I’m only a lesbian in Paris,” she whispered before quickly pushing Isa out of the stall. 

Isa had whined but conceded, and Florence had almost forgotten about the near hookup in a bathroom stall. 

That is, until an interviewer plainly asked her about it a month later. 

“In Whitechapel a friend of mine overheard you say something in the toilets. That you are only a lesbian in Paris. Good line, but is it true?”   


In that moment, Florence’s heart pounded and she nervously glanced around the bar they were sat in. The guy had gone from asking about lyrics to her sexuality in the span of half a second, and she nervously blurted out the first thing she could think of. 

“How did you know about that? Well you know girls kissing girls, it’s alright. It’s a lot softer and... the  _ French _ are... well  _ you know _ , but I’m straight in England!” Cringing at the lies flying out of her mouth, she quickly added on a meek, “Well,  _ mostly _ .”

“How was the interview thing?” Isa asked over the phone the next afternoon.

“Great... besides the fact the guy’s friend heard us in the toilets at Whitechapel.”   


“Oh shit,” Isa said quietly over the line. “What do you mean?”

“He asked about what I meant when I said ‘I’m only a lesbian in Paris.’”

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Isa whispers. “What did you say?”   


“I said I’m straight? Without a second thought? And then I felt awful for saying that so I was like, ‘okay,  _ mostly _ straight.’ I don’t fucking know.”

Isa was slightly hurt; they hadn’t necessarily discussed their odd relationship, but Florence was  _ certainly _ not straight around her. Instead of expressing this though, Isa just laughed it off. 

“Well,” Isa said, a hint of flirtatiousness in her voice in order to mask the hurt, “I guess we’ll have to get back to Paris soon then.”

That weekend they had a gig that ended with Florence jumping into an indoor pond, eventually pulling Isa down with her. Soaking wet, they finished the gig dripping water all over electrical equipment worth more than all of their saving accounts combined. Rob could only shake his head at the two of them as he wrapped up the final bit of the song on guitar. 

After, each equipped with £25 of the £75 Florence had been handed in cash immediately after the gig, they drank until they couldn’t remember their names, or where they were, or what year it was. 

Somehow, Florence and Isa managed to hold themselves together enough to not raise any major red flags to Rob. There was a fine, blurry line between being good friends who occasionally make out like plenty of girls do, and being in a relationship that could completely destroy their growing careers. Not that it really mattered with Rob anyway—he was preoccupied with dancing with a girl he had shyly befriended over the course of the evening. 

When Isa spotted him finally kissing her out of the corner of her eye, she immediately started cheering loudly, and Florence quickly joined in. 

He only responded with a single middle finger behind her back as his face turned bright red. 

After they miraculously sobered up enough to call a cab back to Isa’s, and sloppily readied themselves for bed, Florence found that she couldn’t fall asleep. 

Even while being within an inch of blackout, her mind was racing to the point that sleep was not an option. 

She tried counting, she tried breathing deeply, she tried reciting the entirety of “Dookie” in her head—nothing was working. 

Resigning to the fact she was just going to have to stay awake through the beginning of an awful hangover, she curled herself into Isa’s side, her anxiety from the insomnia somewhat quelled by Isa’s gentle breathing. 

By nine in the morning, light was pouring into the room, only making the sharp pains in her head infinitely worse. She would have given absolutely  _ anything _ at that point to go to sleep. It was around this time that Isa finally stirred awake, deeply inhaling before blinking her eyes open. 

“When did you wake up?” she asked Florence raspily, her hair in disarray as she slowly sat herself up. 

Florence shook her head. “Never went to sleep.”

Isa furrowed her eyebrows. “Jesus Christ, you okay?”   


Florence just laughed a little before wincing at her headache. “I just get bad insomnia sometimes, I’ll pass out eventually.”

“How the fuck did you not fall asleep… one more drink and we would’ve been blackout last night.”

“I think my brain just likes to fuck with me.”   


“Oh god, that’s awful. Just give me a minute.”   


Florence sat back in the bed and watched as Isa closed the blinds and tightly shut the curtains of every window before disappearing from the room. Within minutes, she returned with two little red tablets, a glass of water, a small plate with two pieces of toast, and a cup of chamomile tea. 

“Take these,” Isa said plainly, dropping the tablets into Florence’s palm. Florence did as told before quickly being handed the plate of toast and tea. 

“You’re like a mum,” Florence said, nibbling on the toast. “Thank you for this, you didn’t have to do this.”   


“I know, but you need to sleep. The tea helps,” she said gently.

Willing herself to come off as grateful, Florence lifted the cup to her lips, but grimaced at the taste. 

“Not your thing?” Isa asked with a laugh, gently taking the cup from her.    


“I, um...I don’t like tea,” she said with a small smile. 

“You don’t like tea?!”    


“In my four years of knowing you, when have you ever seen me drink tea?”   


Isa shook her head with a smile as she placed it down on the side table. “Alright, but I’ve only  _ really _ known you for two if we’re being fair. Sleep now, and then we can get coffee later,” she said, tucking herself back under the covers and wrapping herself around Florence, slowly stroking her hair and rubbing circles into her scalp. 

Finally, after hours of exhausting consciousness, Florence could feel her eyelids growing heavy. With the thick duvet and Isa’s arms wrapped securely around her, she felt this odd sense of stillness that she hadn’t felt since she was a little kid.

“Iz?”   


“Hm?”

Florence deeply exhaled, hoping that her next three words wouldn’t make anything weird.    


“I love you.”

—

_ March, 2020 _

_ Los Angeles _

“ _ Yes _ , they’re paying me,” Isa says with a laugh, looking at her parents through the screen of her laptop. “I swear this is more official than the wowow parties.” The remnants of her dinner have gone cold, but recently she hasn’t been feeling all too hungry anyways. 

“Well we’re very proud of you, Bella,” her dad says, the corners of his mouth nearly reaching his light blue eyes. “I can’t wait to hear it.”   


“I think you’ll like it,” Isa says, taking her laptop in one hand and her plate in another. She sets the laptop down on the counter before scraping her food into the garbage and placing her plate in the dishwasher. “There’s a lot of violin—one of the main characters plays, so we were able to use it a lot.”   


“Were you able to get live instrumentation?” 

Isa nods with a smirk. “After much convincing and a few fights,  _ yes _ .”

Her mother laughs. “So glad we taught you to negotiate well.” 

“If by negotiate you mean make absolute demands, then yes, you did,” Isa laughs. She takes the laptop and moves into the living room now, placing it down on the coffee table before flopping onto the couch. “So how are you guys doing? Have you been able to get out?”

“Well your father is still insisting on his daily bike rides, regardless of whether or not the store is open,” her mother starts. 

“It’s exercise! You’re allowed out for exercise,” her father asserts as her mother rolls her eyes. 

“So yes, one of us has. It’s quiet here anyway, though, I don’t feel like we’re missing much.”   


“Well that’s good,” Isa says, fiddling with the drawstring coming out of her hoodie. “We can’t do much of anything around here, it’s a good thing I have most of my equipment here with me.”   


“How did you even get it over there?” her father asks.

“I was able to have it shipped after the tour, they had to ship it back to London anyway so I just paid them to ship it here instead.”

“Smart,” he says with an approving nod. “Still upset we never got to see a show this time around,” he adds, referencing the fact that every time they had a show her parents might have been able to attend, something came up. 

“You didn’t miss much,” Isa says with a laugh, trying to move the conversation along.

“You know we love to see you play! It’s nice to know that those years of lessons actually  _ did _ something.”

“Trust me, the songs I was playing did not showcase it,” Isa says with a bit of a bite. “You would’ve just been watching me play about three chords and a few sound effects.”

Her mother shakes her head. “And I’m sure they all sounded wonderful. It also would’ve been nice to see Florence, it’s been years.”   


“And  _ that _ ,” Isa says with emphasis, “is because we broke up  _ seven years _ ago.”   


“God, it’s been seven years?” her mum asks rhetorically as Isa holds back an eyeroll. 

“Just because you broke up doesn’t mean that you two aren’t still friends. It was a clean break. And just because you aren’t dating  _ definitely _ doesn’t mean we can’t still care about her.”   


Isa flinches at the words “clean break” because the reality of the situation was very,  _ very _ different from what she had told her parents all those years ago.

“How is she doing?” her mother adds on, as if to add insult to injury. 

“I have  _ no _ clue,” Isa says as nicely as she can. While she appreciates that her parents clearly care about her friends (and apparently, her exes), Florence was not someone she wants to be having a conversation about at the moment. 

“She always used to get so anxious about things, I can’t imagine how she’s dealing with this. Poor thing,” her father says, ignoring her daughter. “You should really check in with her.”   


“ _ Okay _ , Da,” Isa says in the tone she spoke in as a teenager. 

“Just saying!” he replies defensively. “So, any new prospects out in America?”

After ending the conversation with her parents and forcing herself to eat half a banana, Isa retires to her bed around nine. She smiles as she thinks about her dad mockingly yelling at her that she was never going to land movies if she didn’t read the books they were adapted from, and the stories about her mother trying to cook dishes that she was nowhere near qualified to do. 

And then her mind settles on Florence. As much as it pains her to admit it, her parents are right. Florence was never known for her sanity in even the most ideal conditions—the stress of a global pandemic can’t be too great for her. 

Begrudgingly, she reaches for her phone and quickly does the math to realize that it’s just past five in the morning in London, and Florence probably isn’t up anyway.    
_ you doing okay? x  _ Isa types out a thousand different ways before finally pressing send. 

Satisfied with her effort, she places the phone face down on the bed, and nestles her head into her pillow. Just as she is starting to enter a dream, there is a quick buzz and she can see the light from the screen from behind her eyelids. 

_ Not really. Cant sleep, but Ill take some melatonin and sort it out X _

Isa feels her heart go tight at the thought of Florence alone in her house, unable to sleep. Her thumbs hover over the keyboard for a while before she finally types out a reply. 

_ call me? if you want  _

Not thirty seconds later, Isa’s phone is buzzing, a silly picture of Florence illuminating her screen. Isa was not expecting her to  _ actually _ take her up on that offer.

“Hey Flo,” Isa says hesitantly, as if the person on the other end is a total stranger. 

“Hey Bell.” 

Isa squeezes her eyes shut and kicks herself for making this offer in the first place. “You doing okay?”   


“Ehm,” she starts slowly, and Isa hears the unmistakable sound of a sniffle. “I just  _ can’t _ fucking sleep, it’s exhausting.”

Isa sighs. “I’m sorry. Have you taken melatonin?” she asks, remembering what a godsend it was for all of them while trying to sleep on tour buses. 

“It isn’t helping,” Florence says defeatedly. 

“Alright, well why don’t you go lie down and I’ll tell you all about Los Angeles?”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Florence says raspily through the line. “I’m sorry to keep you up.”

“It’s only nine here,” Isa says nicely with a cordial laugh. “It’s no problem at all.”

“Well… thank you anyway.”   
  
Isa spends the next hour telling Florence all about the show she is working on, and the house she had miraculously secured, and how her parents are doing with their bookshop. Florence doesn’t really offer up a lot of thoughts, just asking small questions here or there to keep Isa talking. 

After a while, Isa notices the quietest of breathing sounds. “You awake, Flo?” Isa asks quietly. She doesn’t get a response, the speaker continuing to just pour out the sound of her breathing. Isa bites her lip and sighs as she looks at the screen. “Sleep tight, Flo,” she whispers as she gently taps the red circle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always endlessly appreciated :) x


	3. Secret Ceremonials: 2009-2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w: death of a family member

_ June 2009 _

_ Pilton _

“You better keep it the fuck down,” Isa said raspily, her voice aching from both the screaming that had occurred during their performance only hours earlier and the burn of the alcohol that had followed. Florence answered with a kiss as she gently pulled Isa’s top over her head. A tent was not an ideal place to have sex, and a  _ muddy _ tent was  _ especially _ not ideal, but considering how much time they had both devoted to mercilessly teasing each other throughout the night, neither of them particularly cared. They had just played the John Peel stage at Glastonbury; a little bit of mud was not going to stop either of them from properly celebrating. 

“You were amazing tonight, babe,” Isa said sweetly as she pressed kisses into Florence’s neck, breathing hot air onto her skin as she reached down to trace small circles into her girlfriend. In the early days of their relationship, Florence had always been the confident one; now, it makes her heart melt as Isa takes the lead away from her. 

There was enough ambient noise coming from around the grounds even at three in the morning that Isa was not too concerned about the moans coming from Florence’s mouth. Florence was hard enough to keep quiet completely sober, so it would be entirely useless to try to keep her quiet drunk. 

Every once in a while, Isa would look up from between Florence’s legs to study her face, her eyes lightly closed as her entire head tilted back. 

At one point when she looked up though, Florence’s face suddenly snapped into pure terror as her eyes focused on something beyond Isa.

“What is—”   


Before Isa got a chance to even get her whole question out, she found out exactly what had Florence looking so scared. Within half a second, the zipper to their tent was undone and a bright light was sweeping the entire inside. 

“Oh fuck,” they both heard Rob say, his voice undeniable. “I’m so sorry. I—wrong tent.”   


He struggled to close the zipper back up as Florence and Isa both sat in frozen terror. Even after he had left, they both sat still, unsure of what to do. Up until this point, they had been fairly certain that no one suspected a thing. They were careful about how they acted around others, careful about how much affection they gave each other in public, and careful about the way they spoke about one another. Neither of them would have expected the possibility that it would have all been for naught after one careless mistake.

Eventually, Florence pulled her pants back on and found a t-shirt to put on in her backpack. “Let’s just sleep, we can figure it out in the morning,” she said matter of factly, handing Isa one of her own t-shirts to change into. 

As they tried to fall asleep, Isa could swear she heard Florence crying but she didn’t question it, instead holding her close and giving into the darkness. 

The next morning Florence quietly pulled on her wellies and marched over to the line of portable bathrooms on the other side of the field. It was early enough that nearly no one else was around, which meant she was able to use the bathroom, wash the caked mud off her arms and legs, and finally wash her face in peace. She decided to take the long way back to the tent, walking past all the various stages and large tents that were being set up for the day. 

“Florence!” 

Florence jumped, and then immediately recognized it as Rob’s voice before slowly turning around and hoping she was wrong.

As soon as she saw the lanky figure running after her in the mud though, she knew she was in for an awkward conversation.

“Hey,” he said, slightly out of breath as soon as he caught up.

Florence remained silent, her embarrassment too much to overcome. 

“I’m, uh… really sorry about last night,” he said awkwardly, keeping his eyes cast down. “I was still a little drunk, and our tents are identical, and I thought it was mine.”   


Catching onto his nervous energy, Florence exhaled and reached up to wrap an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look you in the eye again, but we’re good, okay?”   


Rob laughed and then wrapped an arm around Florence. “Okay.”

As they continued walking around the grounds, Florence pondered over how to casually ask him to not tell  _ anyone _ about this incident. 

“Rob?” Florence asked, her voice shaking.   


“What’s up?”   


“I’d, ehm… I’d really appreciate, if you, uh, didn’t tell anyone.”   


He looked exaggeratedly confused, and then turned to Florence. “Tell anyone what?” he said with a raise of his eyebrow and a small smirk, as if to say  _ your secret is safe with me _ .

“Rob, I’m being serious.” Tears were threatening to fall from her eyes, and as soon as Rob glanced down at her, he immediately knew that what he saw yesterday was not a one-off thing.

“Oh,” he said gently, taking a step back from Florence. Her face was pale and already there was a tear streaming down her cheek. “Oh, my god, Flo,” he said, immediately wrapping her up in a hug when she started crying. “Are you two…?”   


Against his shoulder, Florence nodded. There was absolutely no point in trying to hide this from Rob, she thought. He had already seen too much—it was a matter of time until he put two and two together. 

“Hey, hey, shh, you’re okay, it’s okay,” Rob said, wrapping a hand around the back of her head as she continued to shake in his arms. 

“Can we…?” Florence asked, motioning towards an empty hill beyond where they were standing. She was becoming ever more conscious of the growing amount of people walking around as the sun ascended over the horizon. 

“Yeah,” Rob said, still holding her hand in his. 

In silence, they walked up the large, solitary hill covered in tall grass and wildflowers. After the five or so minutes of walking, they were at the top, overlooking the entire grounds that were covered in the golden glow of the early morning sun. 

They sat side by side, their arms wrapped around their knees as they watched the tiny dots of people walking around below them. 

Despite the gorgeous view of the sunrise and the lights scattered around the festival, Florence felt sick to her stomach. No one knew about her and Isa—not her best friend, not her sister,  _ no one _ . As much as she adored Rob, she feared that he was going to be upset about how long the two of them had kept such a big secret from him. 

Just as her mind was beginning to spiral into a thousand different horrendous possibilities, Rob’s voice broke the silence. 

“You know I’m not upset with you, right? Or Isa.”

Audibly, Florence exhaled, and her body visibly relaxed. 

“I know,” she said like it was the most obvious thing in the world even though just seconds earlier she thought it was a real possibility. 

“So… you’re together?”   


With her chin resting on her knees, Florence meekly nodded. 

“How long?”   


“A little over a year.” 

Florence could see Rob bite his cheek while quickly deciding how to not let his face show his shock. 

Before he opened his mouth though, Florence spoke before he had a chance. 

“I know that’s a long time to lie to you, and I’m really sorry,” she choked out, her eyes not moving from the horizon in the distance. 

“Oh, Flo,” he said. He had never seen Florence cry before, and he awkwardly did his best to comfort her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.    


Hesitantly, she leaned into him, thankful that he was being so understanding. 

“I don’t think you were lying,” he said after a few moments, Florence’s head resting on his shoulder. “I think you were scared.” 

“Terrified,” Florence quietly whispered out, agreeing with Rob. “You’re the only person who knows, Rob.”   
Rob felt his throat go tight at that admission. Instead of trying to come up with something to respond with, he just held Florence a little tighter as the hustle and bustle of the day picked up below them.

  
  


—

  
_ April, 2020 _

_ Camberwell _

After struggling to download the stupid video call app that Hannah had instructed her to get, Florence decides that whenever she ends up retiring, she is going to live a technology-free existence. These devices are just too damn complicated to be worth the things they can accomplish, she thinks.

_ Where are you? _ a text from her manager, Hannah, reads.  _ Are you having problems? _

_ It says its downloading, 13 minutes left  _ she types out. Of course, this is after having to search the house for her laptop, and then having to charge it since it hadn’t seen the light of day since tour.

Finally, the application opens, and Florence flinches when her face pops up on the screen, along with the faces of Hannah and a bunch of label executives who she barely remembers the names of. 

“Florence!” one of them says enthusiastically, his smile a little too ingenuine for her liking. “It’s good to see you, how are you doing? Are you in London?”

Meekly, Florence nods. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just in London, at home.”

Everyone looks a little confused, and then the nameless man is speaking again. “I think you’re on mute, can you press the little microphone button in the corner?”   


“Oh, sorry,” she says, completely ignoring the fact that they can’t actually hear her. She quickly scans her screen, and then hopes that the button she clicks is the correct one. “How about now?”   


“Gotcha!” he says, his smile once again beaming.    


“Oh good, I was just saying I’m at home in London.”   


“Resting up after tour?”   


What Florence wants to say is that tour ended over 6 months ago, and that she is just bored out of her mind now, but instead she just gives a polite, quiet nod.

After the pleasantries are covered, the business side of the meeting starts. Florence wishes that this could be like the old days, and that when she wants to put out a song, she could just have Isa upload it onto MySpace and be done. Everything that is being said is going straight over Florence’s head, and to be perfectly honest, she doesn’t really care  _ when _ it is released, or  _ how _ it is released, or what the fucking artwork is. She doesn’t care about streaming and profits and pressing vinyls, she just wanted to put it out. After about an hour of endless talking, she is snapped out of her daydreaming when someone says her name.    


“Is all of that okay with you?” a woman asks—the co-owner of her label, if she remembers correctly.

“Mhmm, yeah, that all sounds great,” she says, doing a good job of hiding the fact she hadn’t heard a single word. Suddenly remembering the only point she had prepared for this meeting, she speaks up. “I wanted to ask, though, if there’s a way to redirect profits to a charity, I don’t really know how all of that works but it’s important to me.”   


There is a brief pause of silence before someone talks. “Are you sure you don’t want to save anything for recording?”   


It takes everything she has in her not to roll her eyes, instead politely answering with a firm nod and little smile. 

Eventually the conversation falls back into streaming and copyrights and Florence once again finds her mind wandering. Part of her wonders what would happen if she were to change the passwords on all of her accounts and do whatever she wants. Or if she were to break her contracts and go back to being indie. The business side of music is exhausting, and the fact that all of this is happening over  _ one _ song is mind numbing. 

Suddenly her phone buzzes in her lap.

_ Pay attention!!! I swear I will put an end to this soon. _

Consciously, Florence makes an effort to look at the screen and nod along to whatever is being said. As the meeting wraps up, yet another person asks a question.    


“Florence, do you think you’d be able to do a performance to put on Instagram?”   


“Ehm, I don’t know… about that,” she says slowly, not wanting to outright say no. Performing to a camera was awkward enough even with an audience present, let alone doing it by herself.

“Do you have a piano or something you could use at home?”

Florence shakes her head, again infuriated that these people who supposedly run everything behind the scenes still know nothing about her even a decade later. 

“Yeah, I don’t play,” she laughs as nicely as she can. 

“Oh,” the woman says somewhat disappointedly. “Do you know anyone who can? Any of the band still in London?”

Rob is in New York, Isa is in L.A., Tom is back in Liverpool, and Hazel is with family in Dublin, leaving Florence with no options. 

“No, everyone is elsewhere. But ehm, well, actually—” her mouth is moving faster than her brain can stop it, and she pinches the skin on the back of her hand as the rest of the sentence falls out of her mouth. “I think my friend might be able to play guitar, he’s in London.” 

“Oh great! That would be wonderful. We can discuss that next week, I think that would really help people engage.”   


Again, Florence puts on a fake smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. 

_ Flynn????? Seriously??  _ Hannah texts her as the meeting is wrapped up.   


_ You got a better idea?  _ Florence responds with a little shrug emoji.

  
  


—

_ September 2010 _

_ Los Angeles _

“Flo, babe, it’s  _ okay _ , you’re gonna be okay,” Isa said, firmly running her hand up and down Florence’s back. It had been a good thirty minutes since Florence last threw up, and Isa hoped the worst of the anxiety was behind them. The VMA’s, a huge awards ceremony for music videos in L.A., was tomorrow, and her impending performance to millions of people was making Florence sick to her stomach.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Iz,” Florence said through sniffles as she held her head in her hands. Isa placed a lingering kiss on the side of her head and then pulled her in tight from their spot on the hotel bed. She would’ve done just about anything to make Florence feel better. 

There was always something about televised performances that Florence struggled with—the fear of messing up and hundreds of thousands of people witnessing it in real time would consume her. There was almost nothing worse than the prospect of losing all she had worked for in one four minute performance.

But the fear of falling off of a spinning stage was new. Travis, the choreographer, had done his absolute best to reassure her that she looked great, that she was doing everything exactly as he had intended. Yet every time she would stand up from her starting position of lying down, she would become so disoriented that she couldn’t tell which way was up—that, and the fact she would end up pulling the damn hair extensions they had insisted on her wearing. Add to that the dancers dropping her more than a couple of times, and she was fully horrified at the prospect of completing the performance tomorrow. 

“Flo, I was watching everything today. It looked great, you’re such a pro,” Isa whispered quietly over her shoulder. She ran her hand gently up and down her back, trying to restore calm.

“I want a drink,” Florence whispered, knowing it wasn’t an option given the itinerary for tomorrow. Isa didn’t take the bait, knowing that one drink always turned into five for Florence. Florence bit her lip, willing the nervous tears to stop falling. “What if I tell them I’m sick. I’m sure someone can step in and fill that time slot.”   


Isa sighed. “Florence,  _ no _ .” Gently, she reached over Florence to pull the string on the lamp, and then settled into the bed, facing her. The smell of bleach and soap escaping from the white sheets was a constant reminder of how far away they were from home, but Isa was determined to do her best to make it feel like it was just another night in London. She reached across Florence’s body, lightly tracing patterns into her back, something that had been proven time and time again to calm her girlfriend. “I’m telling you, everything is going to go great. You’re going to look beautiful. People are going to love you, okay? If you can’t trust yourself, at least trust me. I wouldn’t be saying any of this if it weren’t true,” she said, watching as Florence’s exhaustion finally started to outweigh her anxiety. 

“I wish you were going to be there,” Florence said shakily. “It’s weird being up there without you guys.”   


“I will be right where I was sitting today. You’ll be able to find me, I promise.”

Isa could see Florence finally exhale releasing a lot of the tension she had been holding throughout the day. 

“I love you, Iz.”   


Isa smiled, the magic of those words still not lost on her. 

“I love you too, Flo. Sleep tight.”

Unsurprisingly, the performance was pulled off flawlessly. Florence was a highlight of the night, her name spilling out of the mouths of Americans who hadn’t yet heard of her. 

“You did so good baby,” Isa said, pressing a quick kiss to Florence’s lips once she reached her backstage dressing room and closed the door behind them. Florence’s entire body was shaking as Isa held her closely. People were buzzing by with wardrobes and sets and all sorts of camera equipment, but neither of them minded as they held each other in Florence’s tiny space to change. 

“Glad that’s over,” Florence said with a little laugh as she started unclipping extensions and pulling out bobby pins from her hair. Isa helped her, their hands quickly removing everything from Florence’s short bob. 

After carefully removing the gown she had performed in, Isa helped her slip back into her dress and then discreetly walked hand in hand with her back to their seats, where they were greeted by an extremely proud Rob and Chris in the two seats behind them. 

“Be honest: how long were you two making out back there?” Rob whispered with a suspicious raise of his eyebrow. 

Isa scrunched her face up in faux aggravation while Florence just cackled, turning her sparkling green eyes towards the bright lights above.

—

  
April 2020

Los Angeles

“Dude, are you good? You seem fucking  _ out _ of it,” Paul says to Isa. Even though they had finished their soundtrack last month, they still come to the studio every day, trying to build their portfolios. Isa is grateful for the company, albeit six feet apart, and it definitely doesn’t hurt that Paul is in the exact place she wants to be in life in 15 years time.

Isa stops spinning back and forth in her chair and snaps back to reality. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says unconvincingly. “I went on a  _ date _ last night, and I’m just thinking about every weird, uncool, completely awkward thing I said.”

“You went on a  _ date _ ?”

Isa slowly nods.

“In a pandemic?”

“Well, it was over Facetime…” Isa trails off.

Paul just shakes his head and laughs. “Did you expect it to  _ not _ be awkward?”   


“I don’t know… I’m just fucking  _ bored _ I guess.”   


“Alright, well tell me all about it then. Who’s this lucky dude?”   


“ _ Lady _ ,” Isa corrects him, not really concerned about what he would think, “and it was just horrifically awkward. It lasted all of ten minutes and then I was like, ‘yeah, I think I’ve got to go.’”

“Well at least you were the one to end it. Could’ve been worse.”

“This was supposed to be my year, Paul,” Isa says jokingly as she takes the headphones off from around her neck. “And now what? I just schedule a facetime call every night? Oh, better yet, get a bunch of people on a Zoom call all together? See if I can find ‘the one’?”

“I think let’s start by agreeing that online dating is not a great option.”   


Isa just laughs. “I think it’s the only option for the time being.”   


“Come on, you don’t have any friends that would be interested? Acquaintances?”

Isa scoffs and shakes her head with laughter as she gathers her things and searches her bag for a mask. “Trust me, tried that. Doesn’t work out.”

Paul clicks his tongue and nods his head. “Ah, gotcha. That’s a shame.”   


“Yeah,” Isa says with an exhale. “I’m off, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yup, I’ll be here. Sick shirt, by the way, love Velvet Underground,” he says, motioning towards it with his head.

Isa looks down, suddenly remembering that she had finally worked up the nerve to put on the old shirt she had found in her bus drawer over a year ago now. She sighs and whispers a quick “thanks” before hastily leaving the small studio.

Isa isn’t sure why she thought online dating would be a legitimate, viable option at the moment. The loneliness was starting to become a bit overwhelming if she is being honest with herself, but she would have never imagined stooping so low as to agree to a date over facetime. 

The girl was nice enough, but it was so awkward that Isa thinks she might just never go on a date again, whether it be virtual or face to face. Her life is too odd, and she is too old to make any sort of deep connection at this point, she thinks. 

For early April it is hot as hell out, and Isa laments the cotton mask covering her face as she walks back to the house. Growing bored of watching empty streets pass by, she pulls out her phone and calls her dad.    


“Bella!” he exclaims excitedly after only the second ring. If her math is correct, it must be pushing 11 in England, but he doesn’t seem to care at all. 

“Hi, Da,” she says, a smile forming under her mask. “How are you?   


“I’m good, love. I just finished up binding a few books, I’ll have to send you some pictures.”   


“Are you still at the shop?”

“Yeah, my sleep schedule is all sorts of messed up so I figure I might as well be productive.” 

“You should work on that,” Isa says with a small laugh as she presses a crosswalk button with her elbow. “How’s mum? And Jim is at home now, right?”   


“Mum is good, very good. She’s refusing to leave the house, but she has all of her shows.”   


“And  _ that _ is because she’s smarter than you,” Isa says jokingly. “If you have Jim there, make him do all the dirty work!”

“Oh we do, trust me. Poor boy has been organizing all my records, he’s got his work cut out for himself.”

“Mm,” Isa says, “sounds like fun.”

“And how are you doing love? We watched the first episode of the show, everything sounded lovely.”   


“Did you!?” Isa asks happily. “Aw, I’m glad.”   


“Saw your name in the credits and everything.”   


“Yeah, I’m kind of a big deal now,” Isa says seriously. “No pictures, please.”   


“Oi, don’t let it get to your head,” her father laughs. “Making any friends?”   


“Well, ehm… not really. I have Paul, I see him most days. He’s cool.”   


“Paul seems very nice, but he is an old man, much like myself,” he laughs. “Do you really not see anyone else?”   


Isa briefly considers telling her father about her failed date. Considering how desperate he was for Isa to find someone after seeing how heartbroken she was after Florence, it would probably do his heart good to know that Isa is at least putting herself out there. Flinching at the memory of her awkward, likely broken up rambling though, she decides against it. “Not really, we’re totally in lockdown here.”

“It’s tough,” he says sympathetically. “This will be over soon enough though. If it weren’t so damn dangerous I’d have you on a flight back right now,” he laughs.

“Oh, and have me and Jim sleep on the twin bed in the guest room together?” Isa says. Her parents downsized a few years ago, and now sleeping arrangements were complicated between her and her two brothers during family gatherings. 

“We have an air mattress! You’re welcome to it,” he says warmly.

“Hmm, I’ll think about it,” Isa says, smiling at her father’s antics.   
  


—

_ August 2011 _

_ Peckham _

“ _ Fuck _ , I forgot to pack pyjamas,” Florence said as she leaned over her bag, wearing only a pair of thin pants. They had been in a studio finalizing masters all day, doing their best to make peace with the fact the songs for their second album might never feel completely finished despite all the work that had gone into them. 

“You could just sleep naked,” Isa said from the bathroom around the corner. “I can keep you warm.”   


“Shut  _ up _ ,” Florence replied with a laugh. “Can I take a shirt?”   


“Yeah, take whatever.”   


“Thank you,” Florence said graciously as she opened Isa’s drawers. It was apparent that Isa hadn’t really gotten around to unpacking from tour either, clothes haphazardly strewn throughout her room. Not that it mattered, really, considering they’d be back on the road in a little over a month’s time.

“Seriously, you’re going to take my favorite shirt?” Isa said with a scoff after returning to the bedroom. Florence was tucked under the covers, Isa’s favorite black t-shirt just barely visible. 

“What, I like the Velvet Underground too!”

Isa just rolled her eyes as she climbed under the covers and switched her lights off. “You’re lucky I like you.”   


“Oh, you like me?”   


Even in the dark, Florence could see Isa’s smirk. Feeling her slight annoyance, Florence reached for her jaw and kissed her sweetly. “I’ll give it back, promise.”   
“Mhmm, sure you will.”

To no one’s surprise, the next morning Florence tucked it discreetly in her bag, wanting to save a little piece of Isa for wherever she felt lonely. Even in her house of eight people, she felt invisible at times; her parents, all three of them, seemed to be constantly working, and her siblings had all sorts of various commitments that kept them away. 

As Florence unlocked the door to her house, she suddenly felt uneasy about the fact that she was nearly 25 years old and still hadn’t moved out of her childhood home. 

She took a deep breath, willing herself to not get too upset over it, and then pushed the door open before turning the corner into her room, which was overflowing with luggage from tour. She ran her hands over her face, trying to avoid the inevitable feeling of being overwhelmed. Before she got the chance, though, her mother was behind her in the doorway.

“Spend the night at Isa’s again?”   


“Yeah, we got back kind of late from the studio yesterday,” Florence sighed. 

“You’ve been over there more than you’ve been here,” her mother laughed as she leaned in for a hug. “You should really stop that, it can’t be good for your back to go from sleeping in one of those tiny bunks to sleeping on a sofa. You should get some sleep in a real bed.”   


Florence opened her mouth to correct her mother, to tell her that she  _ had _ been sleeping on a real bed, but ultimately decided against it. As harmless as it would have probably sounded, she did not want to take any risks. 

“It’s fine, really.” 

“Mm. Or, better yet, you could get your own place,” she said, raising her eyebrow. 

“Next year, when I have time,” Florence replied plainly. “I want to be able to actually look.”

“Yeah. If you ever decide to stop this whole singing thing, maybe you can finally move out of your mum’s house,” she said back with a smirk. 

Florence just rolled her eyes with a small smile. 

That same night, Florence and Isa went out. With the demands of recording and mixing and mastering, they had hardly gotten a chance to enjoy London like they used to. A few of their old friends from the days in Crystal Palace met them at Isa’s flat, and they were already drunk enough to not give much thought to their loud singing or crooked walking by the time they were actually walking down the streets. 

This particular night started like most nights; they started in Peckham, drinking at the bars they had grown up in. Familiar faces surrounded them, and Florence and Isa felt special as they were given a proper “welcome home” treatment. This of course resulted in free drinks abound, which subsequently resulted in Florence and Isa quickly reaching their already low tolerance levels. 

“We’ve got to slow down,” Isa said, her head already starting to feel heavy as they walked out into the street and started towards Camberwell. “We’re not going to last long at this rate.”

“Here, take this,” Florence said, pulling a small baggie of something Isa didn’t recognize out of her wallet.

“Nah, Flo, we’re too fucking old for that shit.” 

Florence just rolled her eyes as she scooped one out with her finger and pressed it to the back of her tongue. “I’m  _ never _ going to be too old for ‘ _ this shit _ ,’” she said with a little laugh just seconds before her ankle rolled in and she fell to the hard concrete with a thud.

Isa spent most of the rest of that night desperately trying to keep an eye on Florence. Her bloody knees were a small, subtle reminder of what could happen if Isa wasn’t diligent. It was hard to control her, though, when she would wordlessly slip away to the bathroom, and come back looking a few degrees worse before Isa even noticed she was gone.

“What are you taking?” Isa asked eventually once Florence’s eyes were so glossy they were reflecting the colored lights above them.

She didn’t make an effort to look at Isa or even answer, instead just responding with a little shrug as her expressionless face continued to stare into space.

That was the first night of many that actually scared Isa. Throughout the first tour, she had seen Florence in all sorts of states due to all sorts of substances—she had never witnessed Florence become an absolute shell of herself though, and she had  _ never _ seen someone get so close to needing a medical intervention after they returned home. 

A few hours later, with Florence safely tucked in bed after quite a few hours of being sick and wavering through various levels of consciousness, Isa said something that scared Florence right back:

“You know this is going to have to stop one day, right?”   


“One day,” Florence half-heartedly mumbled.   


“I’m serious, Florence. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t care if they come back from a night out dead or alive.”

Florence felt her heart sink, because for all the years she had felt this way, no one had ever called her out on it. Instead of responding, though, she dove right back into her dark hole of consciousness that she so frequently craved but could never quite reach. 

—

_ April 2020 _

_ Camberwell _

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Florence says, messing up the words a third time as she and Flynn desperately try to record a “live” version of the new song.    


From behind the iPhone that they precariously rested against a few books, Flynn puts down his guitar and stops the video.   


“At this point, you’ll have enough to do a whole outtakes video too,” he says, resetting the phone to where it was. “Are you sure you don’t want to just write down the lyrics?”   


“No, I know them,” Florence says, pausing to take a sip of water. “This whole performing to a camera thing just freaks me out.”

She’s wearing a dress that had been decided on only an hour earlier, a find from a charity shop somewhere in the states that she had forgotten about before fumbling through her closet. Flynn had a little too enthusiastically agreed to come over and play guitar, and with a small sticky note with the chords written down, had figured out the song pretty quickly. Florence counts them in, and then finally,  _ finally _ , they get a good take.

They stand shoulder to shoulder and watch it back, and Florence is as happy as she’s going to get with it. 

“I think this is good,” she says, sending it off to Hannah to have it approved. “Thanks for coming over.”

“Yeah,” Flynn says, continuing to stand in his spot as Florence looks at him expectantly. He shuffles in place, looking timid and nervous. “I, um, wanted to ask, if you maybe, uh, want to cook dinner together or something? Or I could get takeaway?”

Quickly, Florence lies. “Oh, that’s really nice, but I have leftovers from yesterday and I have a little facetime date with Grace in a bit, so…” she says with a small, adequately disappointed smile.   


“Gotcha,” Flynn replies with a  _ genuinely _ disappointed smile. Florence is relieved as she watches him leave, giving him a little wave through the window as he turns the corner to the place he left his bike.

With a sigh, she returns upstairs, takes off her dress, and then throws herself on her unmade bed wearing only her bra and pants. Her phone buzzes, and she finds a single text from Hannah containing a little thumbs up emoji. 

She tosses it behind her, and then goes back to staring at the ceiling, which has been her activity of choice ever since lockdown started.

She tries to think of the food she has downstairs that she can scrap together for a meal. 

Or maybe she should give up and walk the block to the deli to get some fish to go with the potatoes that are going bad by the second. 

Just as she rolls over to get herself out of bed, her phone is buzzing again.

This time she is met with a picture of Rob, and she is puzzled as to why he is calling. 

“Hey Bobby,” she says happily. She hasn’t heard from him in awhile, seeing as he’s gone off to New York to live with his girlfriend. “What’s up?”   


“Hey Flo,” he responds as sweetly as always. “How are you doing?”   


“I’m good, I’m good. Yeah, just trying to keep myself sane,” she says with a little laugh. “That song we recorded ages ago is going out soon, so it’s been a nice distraction.” She gets up from the bed and walks around the corner to her closet, pulling on a large, soft jumper while balancing the phone in her hands. “How are you? How’s Sara?”

“We’re doing alright. I’ve been fucking around with recording a bit, and she’s been busy with a lot of projects. We’re hanging in there.”   


“It’s bad there, isn’t it?”

“It’s… not great, yeah, it’s pretty bad,” he says defeatedly. “We’ve been surviving on takeaway and haven’t left the apartment much, but can’t complain.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, hopefully this will be over soon,” Florence says as she starts a pot of coffee, figuring if she was going to have to trek out to the deli she might as well give herself the energy to do it. “So what’s up? Not that I don’t love hearing your voice,” she says with a laugh.

Rob doesn’t return the lightheartedness though.    


“Have you heard from Isa recently?”   


Florence racks her brain, trying to remember. “I talked to her on the phone like two weeks ago, but I haven’t heard from her since,” she says. She can feel her heart beat a little faster as she frantically tries to figure out what this is about. “Is everything okay?”

“Flo,” Rob says slowly, clearly not wanting to say whatever it is he is about to say. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but Mr. Summers passed away yesterday morning.”

Florence can hear the blood rushing in her ears as she quickly slips into a wooden chair next to her table.  _ No.  _ This is not happening. Roger Summers is one of the nicest people she knows. Isa had just been telling her about how he was giving her all sorts of shit for not actually reading the scripts she was applying for, and about his daily bike rides around Aldeburgh, and how excited he was to finally have time to rebind some vintage books. Isa is all the way in Los Angeles. This cannot be happening.

This _is_ _not_ happening.

“Flo?” 

Florence deeply inhales and then a single sob escapes from her chest. In front of her, she watches as the phone call is ended on her screen, and then within a second, she is getting a facetime call from Rob. 

She picks it up, and immediately he starts talking.    


“You okay?” 

Florence just shakes her head, only the top of her head visible on the screen. 

“I’m so sorry Florence. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t even get to see him on the last tour,” she manages to get out.   


Rob shakes his head. “I know. I know. He was good to us.”   


Florence forcefully exhales through pursed lips, thinking of all the dinners Isa’s parents used to take them to after gigs, and holidays in Aldeburgh she had spent with the Summers, all the books she had been gifted even  _ after _ things with Isa ended, and all of the kind affirmations she had received from Roger when she was still terrified of being with Isa all those years ago. He had treated her like a daughter, and was always the one to talk her down from all of her outrageous fears in those early years of fame.

“How did you hear?” Florence asks after a pause of silence. 

“Isa called me. She asked me to let you know, I don’t think she had it in her to do it herself.”   


Florence just bites her cheek and nods as she wipes under her nose with the back of her hand. “Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.”   


“I’m really sorry, Flo. I wish I could give you a big hug right now.”   


Florence smiles for a split second before her face twists into a teary frown again. “Yeah, me too,” she says shakily. “Do you think she’s okay?”   


Rob just shakes his head. “Probably not. She’ll make it through though, she’s tough.”   


Florence nods. “What should I do? Is she coming back here?”

“She takes a plane out tomorrow, I think she’s going to stay with her mum in Aldeburgh. I think just give it a day and then text her, see if she wants to call. I know you have a lot of good memories of him, I’m sure she would love to hear from you Flo.”

Florence looks to the ceiling, willing the tears to stop falling from her eyes. “I’ve only talked to her once since tour.  _ Once _ .”

Rob flinches, but does his best to not let it show through the screen. He was never entirely sure of the circumstances of their break up, but their friendship ever since has been weird at best. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t still care deeply about you Flo. I have no idea what’s happened between you two, but trust me when I say even if she doesn’t show it, she’ll always love you on some level.”

Florence quickly nods, and then does her best to pull herself together so she can end the call and go cry in private.

“I’ve got to get going, I have dinner on the stove,” she lies.   


“Okay Florence. I love you, please call anytime if you need me.”   


“I will. I love you. Bye.”   


She hits the little red button, puts her phone down and then starts sobbing into her hands. 

She ends the night by herself, crying alone at her dinner table with an empty stomach and an aching heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/feedback are always appreciated :) x


	4. The Broken Finger Years: 2012-2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w: grieving/death (I am SO sorry I forgot to tag the last chapter)

_ September, 2012 _

_ Middle of Nowhere, Louisiana _

“You know  _ damn _ well why you can’t post shit like that!” Florence said, tears streaming down her face. After the show, they had all drunk in the bar that was at the venue, and alcohol was coursing through her veins. Feeling the warmth of the drinks, Isa had worked up the nerve to post a picture of her and Florence that Rob had taken. Florence was smiling while placing a kiss on Isa’s cheek, and Isa was looking up and laughing at someone while Chris photobombed them in the background. It seemed harmless enough, but apparently Florence didn’t agree. Outside the bus that she, Isa, and two backing singers shared, rain was pouring down and thunder was cracking so loudly it sounded like shattering glass. 

Isa had shut the door to the tiny room in the back of the bus when Florence had begun shouting, not wanting to make their busmates privy to the bad fight that was inevitably about to happen. 

“Florence, it’s a picture of you kissing me on the  _ cheek _ ,” Isa said as gently as she could manage. She reached out to touch Florence’s arm, but Florence ripped it away before Isa got the chance. 

“Isabella, I thought we were on the same page,” she said loudly but coldly. She only used Isa’s full name when she was mad, and Isa felt her breath rush out of her as she tried to figure out how to diffuse the situation. 

“Flo, we  _ are _ , we are,” she said, the tears beginning to fall, “but how long are we going to completely hide ourselves? If I can’t post a photo like that, should I also just stop looking at you while we’re in public?”

“I don’t know, Isa!” Florence snapped as the bus hit a bump in the road. “Things are pretty good for us I think, do you want to ruin that by just rebranding this whole project as a lesbian duo?” she said, her words stinging as they reverberated in Isa’s head. Logically, Isa knew that Florence was drunk and that this was all of her fear bubbling up to the surface, but she still couldn’t help but become a little angry.   


“So  _ that’s _ why you refuse to acknowledge me?” Isa said, the words barely able to get out of her throat. “ _ That’s _ why the only person you’ve told about us over the last four years is your sister when my entire fucking family knows?”

“That’s not  _ fucking _ fair Isabella!” Florence said, her voice growing louder. Isa felt herself shrink as Florence kicked a suitcase lying between them. “Do you ever consider  _ my _ feelings? That it’s not that easy? I know you’d go tell the whole fucking world if you could, but I have other things to think about.”   


“Oh, so your career is more important than me?” Isa responded, growing bold as Florence grew angrier.   


Becoming frustrated that Isa had fully cornered her into saying something that she would regret, Florence turned around and threw her fist into the wall. Wincing as she turned back around, she managed to spit out a loud, “fuck you, Isa.” Her face was bright red and her eyes were glossy with tears. 

Isa instinctively took a step back. She had never seen Florence so upset, so scary looking. All Isa could do was cower and continue to cry as she carefully watched Florence. 

Suddenly though, as she watched Isa slowly back away, Florence felt like an awful monster. Isa’s entire body was shaking as her back hit the wall. 

“Oh no,” Florence whispered out, her voice suddenly soft. Seeing Isa cry had a sobering effect on her, and suddenly she was completely lucid as she tried to make amends. “Isa, I’m sorry,” she said, rushing forward as Isa slid down the wall. 

Isa was so shut down by this point that she didn’t even flinch as Florence put her hands on her shoulders as she cried into her hands. 

“Isa, I didn’t mean it,” she said, gently prying her hands away from her face. “ _ Fuck _ , I’m so sorry. I love you so much,” she said, desperately trying to convince Isa it was true.

Desperately trying to convince  _ herself _ that it was true.

Eventually, Isa had no choice but to give into Florence’s comforting touch, and they tightly embraced as Florence pressed kiss after kiss into her temple. 

Isa wondered if Florence would be kissing her right now if she hadn’t already deleted that photo. 

Eventually Florence pulled away and stared into Isa’s eyes, trying to figure out if she had been forgiven. 

Isa was still scared looking at Florence’s green irises though—only a short while ago, her eyes seemed so angry. Painfully, Isa diverted her gaze down to where Florence’s hand was resting on her thigh. 

Something was horribly wrong though. “Flo,” Isa said carefully, as if her voice might break the peaceful trance that had fallen over them, “your finger…”

“Oh fuck,” Florence said, looking down at her left ring finger. It was bright red and stuck at a horrific looking angle, the dislodged bone pressing against her skin.

“You have to go to hospital,” Isa said matter of factly, getting up to tell the bus driver. 

As soon as Isa left, Florence once again let herself break down into tears, staring at the physical reminder of just how out of control this situation was becoming. 

At the hospital the boys were already waiting, their bus a little ahead of the girls’ after getting out of the venue earlier. 

“What the fuck happened?” Rob asked as Florence and Isa walked down the stairs of the bus, both clearly still teary. 

With that question Florence’s face scrunched up and she continued to cry as they walked towards the glass doors in the warm, late-summer heat. 

“She just took a hard fall when the bus turned and caught her hand weird,” Isa said as calmly and as confidently as she could, hoping it would be enough to keep Rob from asking any further questions.

—

_ April 2020 _

_ Aldeburgh _

The funeral is weird. Not that any funeral feels particularly normal, but standing at a distance around a hole in the middle of the forest while four strangers in hazmat suits lower a coffin into the ground feels like a new level of odd, even by death’s standards. 

“He would’ve loved to see this,” Jim says, shaking his head as they pile in soil before motioning for Isa, her brother, and her mother to come over. “A tree,” Jim adds as they walk over, “of course Roger would want to turn into a tree.”

Even through the tears pressing on her eyes, Isa can’t help but laugh at her brother as they walk hand in hand to where a small tree awaits planting. Will carefully pulls it out from its plastic pot, and then the four of them all help surround it with soil. 

When their work is done, they stand there for a moment, trying to absorb the absurdity of the moment. It’s a foggy day, and the smell of the moist earth around them reminds Isa of the camping trips she used to take with her father. He was always so determined to teach her and her brothers all the constellations, but they were always far more interested in whatever was cooking over the fires.   


Isa thinks about how strange it is that you spend your entire life watching your parents’ unfold like a movie, and that sometimes, the movie doesn’t get a happy ending, or even a proper ending at all.

She then thinks about how her dad would love her thinking metaphorically like that. 

With a small smile she takes her brother’s hand again, and they all pile back into the same car they grew up in.

Later, after an evening of cooking and breaking sobriety only for the sake of drinking her father’s favorite beer in his memory, Isa finally breaks down. She makes it quick, ducking into a small bathroom tucked away in the corner of the small house. Not wanting her family to hear her ragged breaths, she turns on the shower, and then makes a half-hearted attempt to take off her makeup and brush her teeth. It comes in waves, realizing that he’s not coming back, and Isa does her best to accept the feeling of utter defeat in the pit of her stomach. 

Once she’s cried to the point of feeling like her skull might split in two from the sinus pressure, she turns off the water and quickly gets into an old t-shirt and cotton shorts before ducking into her father’s room of books and records to find the air mattress he had spoken about on multiple occasions. 

After combing through a closet, she finally finds it and unfolds it, carefully laying it out on the carpeted floor. She plugs in the pump and gets everything connected, but the second the air starts blowing it comes right out of a hole just to the side of the button. 

“Fuck’s sake,” she mutters before tossing it aside. She returns to the closet, grabs a few duvets, and makes a small nest for herself before tossing an old blanket from her childhood on top of herself. 

After plugging her phone in, notices a little red circle and opens the text waiting for her.

_ Thinking of you X _

Isa smiles at the text from Florence. Even after all she had put her through, it seems that Florence still deeply cares about her, judging the many simple texts containing x’s and heart emojis that had come through from Florence over the past week. Florence was thoughtful like that—she knew that Isa was unlikely in a place of having the energy to respond, so she managed to make her aware of her presence without any indication of expecting a response back. 

Her duvet-nest is not the most comfortable arrangement, but Isa feels strangely calmed by Florence’s brief text. Unable to fall asleep, she decides to finally respond.

_ thank you, were all doing alright. hows the insomnia? x  _

_ The usual. I hope your getting some sleep. _

_ i am i am. brain just wont turn off. floor sleeping sitch is not helping _

_ Oh no! Back to LA soon? _

_ nah back to sunny highgate im afraid, not allowed to go back to us lolz _

A hundred miles away in Camberwell, Florence’s thumb hovers a bold text. She hates the thought of Isa being alone after facing both a sudden loss and a quick uprooting of the life she’s established over the past four months, and selfishly, she’s getting lonely. Isa doesn’t seem as cold as she did a few months ago, and it would probably be good for both of them to have a housemate, even if it’s not an ideal one. 

Quickly deciding that it’s a horrible, horrible idea though, she deletes each letter and types out a new text. 

_ Ah, well lunch as soon as were free. Going to try to go to dreamland now, hopefully Ill see you there soon xx _

—

_ October, 2012 _

_ Albuquerque  _

The second time the crew landed in an American emergency room within a two week span was not because of a broken finger, but rather a sick Florence who was no longer responding to a single thing Rob or Isa were saying. 

It was the middle of the night, and Isa had heard vomiting in the bathroom of the bus, which led to the discovery of Florence draped over the toilet with seven or so mini bottles of liquor stolen from various hotel rooms scattered around her. 

The vomiting was scary, but it was the shaky, random breathing that forced her to go wake up Rob, who had fallen asleep in the front of the bus after a long night of card games. 

A frantic call to 911, a missed exit, lots of tears, and a charcoal treatment later, Florence was lying comfortably in a triage bed, an IV of fluids dripping into her arm. 

Isa didn’t want to get mad; Rob was with them, and more than anything, she was concerned about Florence. Florence was a heavy drinker, but she had never  _ hid _ drinking from Isa before. Isa had to wonder if this was a random occurrence, or if this was bound to happen. 

After feeding half-truths to the doctors who pulled her and Rob aside to make sure Florence did not need to be admitted for a psychiatric issue, Isa spent a good long while simply looking at the pale girl in front of her. For all the various states she had seen Florence in before, she had never been forced to look at her lifeless face under bright fluorescent lights. The way the normally cute bags under her eyes turned grey, how her freckles seemed to fade into her skin, how her chapped and broken lips had taken on a pale-purplish color—it all seared into her memory.

Rob asked her multiple times if she wanted to go back to the bus and sleep, but every time Isa simply shook her head. Finally, after a few hours, Rob stole a pillow off a nearby shelf and convinced Isa to rest. 

When Florence was finally awake and lucid a few hours later, all she could do was start crying when she looked over the bed and found Isa and Rob both asleep on the cold tile floor, Isa’s head resting on Rob’s shoulder. 

She shook quietly, her head pounding as she silently sobbed. When a nurse came in to change her IV bag, she offered her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as Florence desperately tried to calm her breathing. 

When Rob woke up, Isa was fast asleep on top of him, using his shoulder as a pillow, and he could hear the quiet, miraculous sound of Florence breathing steadily. 

“Hey,” he said, gently rubbing Isa’s shoulder to wake her. “Why don’t we go back to the bus so you can get some rest, yeah?”

Isa just quietly hummed in return, clearly not ready to enter the waking world where her girlfriend very nearly harmed herself because of some stupid, mini vodkas. 

When Isa refused to move, Rob gently scooped her up, her small frame not difficult to carry, and brought her through the white tiled halls and back to the bus that was in the far end of the car lot. 

On the bus, the other girls were silent, giving both Rob and Isa sympathetic looks. Rob just nodded at them, as if to thank them for saving their questions. 

Quietly, he got to the back of the bus and put Isa down on the small bed that she and Florence shared. Just as he was about to leave, he heard a small voice speak up.

“Rob?”

“Yeah, Iz?” he replied quietly, slowly turning around and shutting the door again. 

“Do you think she has a problem?”   


Rob just bit his lip. “I think we all have a bit of a problem.”   


“But, I mean,” Isa slowly began, trying to articulate what she was thinking, “I don’t know, are  _ you _ drinking seven mini vodkas alone in the bathroom so no one sees?”

Rob stepped forward before gently sitting on the foot of the bed. He understood exactly what Isa was trying to say. 

“No, I’m not.”

Isa just nodded in response. “I think she needs help, Rob,” she said, finally allowing herself to break down into tears again. 

“Shh, hey, okay, okay,” Rob said gently, helping her sit up before wrapping his arms around her. He hadn’t seen this coming, and for some reason, it seemed like Isa  _ did _ . 

“Isa,” he finally asked from behind her back, “how did she actually break her finger?”

He felt Isa shake under his hands. “She fell.” Immediately, he knew that was a lie. 

“Isa,” he began again, saying her name with such tenderness that it brought tears to her eyes, “you were both crying. I know you’re an empathetic person, but something other than breaking that finger happened. You can tell me.”

Shakily, Isa exhaled and pulled away so she could see Rob’s face. “We got in a fight. She was pretty drunk, and she punched the wall,” Isa says, her eyes floating over to where there was a tiny, nearly imperceptible mark on the wall from the incident. Suddenly, her face scrunches up again and her body shakes. “She’s not acting like herself anymore, and it’s scaring the shit out of me, Rob.”

Rob felt his heart drop as he listened to wails escape from Isa’s chest. Florence being violent, even towards a wall, was  _ certainly _ out of character, and all he could do is pray and pray that Isa was wrong as he gently stroked her hair and sat with her until she fell asleep. 

—

_ April 2020 _ _  
_

_ Camberwell _

“Can you hear me?” Florence asks as soon as her therapist’s face appears on her screen.    


“Yes, I can hear you, dear, how are you doing? It’s good to see you!”

“I’m good! It’s good to see you too.” Florence had forced herself to put on an actual blouse for the special occasion of Zoom therapy, and she consciously reminds herself not to get up and risk exposing her pyjama bottoms. 

“So you’re back?”   


“Yes,” Florence says humbly. She hadn’t been to therapy since the end of February, which she regrets, but there was no point in feeling bad about it now. Clearly, the damage is done.

“So what brings you back?”   


“Oh, all sorts of stuff,” Florence says with a little laugh, avoiding direct eye contact with the webcam embedded in the top of her screen. 

“Well how are you doing with lockdown? Let’s start there.”   


“I’m okay. I’m alone at the moment, but Flynn—my ex boyfriend,” she reminds Dr. Taylor, as if she doesn’t have it in the notes she probably has sitting in her lap, “he’s been stopping over every few days.”   


“And you’re okay with that?”   


“I’m—fine with it,” Florence says somewhat hesitantly. 

“Fine with it? Why just fine?”   


“I don’t know. I feel like he wants to start something again, but maybe I’m just completely paranoid.”   


“Do  _ you _ want to start something again?”

“Oh  _ no _ ,” Florence says firmly. “I—yeah, just no.”

“Have you expressed to him that maybe you don’t want unexpected visits?”   


“I...hinted at it.”   


“Alright, well let’s start with explicitly asking him to limit his visits. Clarity is good, right?”   


“Yes, clarity is good.” Florence can swear she feels herself getting a little bit dumber every time she goes to therapy, but she definitely needs these seemingly obvious reminders from Dr. Taylor. 

“What else? Any major events?”   


Florence feels her throat go tight. “Yeah, actually. One that’s been really bothering me.”   


“Go ahead.”   


“My ex’s father, ehm, he passed away very suddenly.”   


“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Taylor says sympathetically, placing her pen down on the table in front of her computer. “Were you still close with him?”   


“Not really, I haven’t seen him in years, which is I suppose part of why it’s bothering me so much. He was really good to me and I never reached out to him after my ex and I broke up even though he still made an effort.”   


“And your ex, have you reached out to him to see how he’s doing?”

Florence feels her heart pound as she quickly tries to decide if she should open up about Isa, something she should have done the first time she saw Dr. Taylor three years ago. 

“Yeah, I have. They seem to be doing okay,” she says, taking the neutral route. “They’re back in London now, they’ve been gone for awhile, and now I’m trying to figure out if I should call, or reach out, or anything.”

“Have you seen him recently? Even in the last year or so?”   


With the second use of the word  _ him _ , Florence finally cracks.

“Ehm…  _ she,  _ actually. And I’ve seen her quite a bit since we broke up,” she says, not ready to explain the entirety of their odd arrangement through the past seven years, “and I’ve already texted her this week.” 

If Dr. Taylor is at all surprised, she does a good job of hiding it through the screen. “I see. Do you mind me asking  _ when _ you ended that relationship? How long ago was that?”

Florence sighs and her eyes float up as she tries to quickly do the math. “It was… two thousand… thirteen? I think? Seven years ago?”

Dr. Taylor pauses, studying Florence’s anxious face through her screen. Over the past few years, she’s grown protective of Florence, even though she knows she has yet to be completely honest with her. “So, this was right around…” she starts, hoping Florence catches on to what she is getting at. 

“Yes,” Florence says with a sigh, cutting her off. “Right after that, actually.” 

—

_ August, 2013 _

_ Kraków _

The beginning of 2013 had been pretty good. 

When they all got home after tour, Isa helped Florence finalize moving into her new house, and they spent almost all of their time together during their first few months of freedom. Their days were occupied by emptying boxes, trying every takeaway in London, and writing shitty songs that they knew would never see the light of day. 

For a while, things were okay.

Silently, Isa steered Florence away from alcohol. After reading up on message boards of how to help loved ones struggling with addiction, she developed sly methods of keeping Florence away from excessive amounts alcohol; nights out turned into dinners out with a night in afterward; coffee became a constant; Isa all but forced Florence to eat before she would drink on rare occasion; and slowly, Isa removed all the alcohol from her house. 

It’s not that Florence didn’t notice any of these new behaviors, but she chose not to comment on them, wanting to let Isa believe that she was getting better—that what she witnessed during their time in the states was truly a one-off occasion that would never happen again.

Florence was also trying to convince  _ herself _ that the poisoning was a mistake, but the bottles of liquor in her closet that she would consult when her head felt like it couldn’t take it anymore said otherwise. She definitely wasn’t proud of it, but the feeling of shame that came with each sip was not as bad as the look that would have been on Isa’s face if she knew how ill she still was, and  _ especially _ not as bad as the shame that came with the intruding thoughts about other, older habits she was having.

By April, Isa was so confident in Florence’s progress that she felt okay leaving her behind for two months so she could go get work done in Los Angeles. Florence had plenty to get done in London, and they both agreed that they could make it work for a little over sixty days, with Florence visiting for one week in the middle. 

The one week visit never happened, though, after Isa received the scariest call of her life from Grace just as she was about to fall asleep one night almost three weeks after she left. 

She didn’t like recalling the contents of that call; where they found Florence, or the condition she was in, or how much reversal agent they had to give her, or the haunting wails that sailed all the way from Grace across the sea to Isa’s phone. 

Florence was okay by the time Isa was able to see her a little less than 24 hours later. Those intruding thoughts had just gotten the best of her, _just this_ _once_ , she insisted. Isa told her she believed her, and then silently prayed and prayed that one day she would _actually_ believe it. Florence hugged Isa tightly as they both cried, and made promises that never saw the light of day as soon as she stepped out of the hospital. 

While watching Florence like a hawk for months on end after that, Isa slowly began to resent her. She wished that she could just trust her, but that trust had been severely damaged. Florence was hyper-aware of this growing resentment, and showered Isa with affection in an attempt to fight it. As charming as she was, it seemed to work even as she continued to refuse the professional help that Isa so desperately wanted her to get. 

Most of their days were filled with trying to write the third album; they hadn’t intended on starting so quickly, but Isa was desperate to keep Florence occupied. The songs flowed effortlessly, especially once they got an idea for an album about a witch trial in Los Angeles. 

Writing was cathartic for both of them, and they had a solid six songs by mid-summer that they were both proud of. Isa poured herself into producing them, arranging a ridiculous amount of MIDI instruments that when combined, sounded like a full orchestra despite being created in a glorified shed. 

The more and more Isa threw herself into her work, however, the more and more distant Florence seemed to become. This worried Isa, knowing that they had a few concerts to perform in the coming months. Isa knew that with nothing concrete to look forward to, Florence was going to regress if she didn’t get the support she needed. Every time she would gently suggest getting help, or even just going to a support group, though, Florence would just go silent. 

When she relapsed, Isa immediately knew. She didn’t know with what, and she sure as hell did not want to provoke Florence, but she was utterly terrified. She knew that whatever Florence was getting up to when she wasn’t looking was hurting her—she had a hard time concentrating on anything, her stomach was constantly in pain, her once bright face had taken on a dull, grey appearance, and her already thin frame was becoming smaller and smaller. Every time Isa worked up the nerve to say something though, Florence would plainly tell her that she was being stupid and that she could take care of herself. 

By the time the concert in Poland rolled around in August, Isa had a hard time even looking at Florence. She didn’t want to know what Florence was up to when she snuck out of bed at night, or where she was going when she said she was going to dinner with her childhood friends. Isa didn’t want to know the lies Florence was telling herself in order to make herself feel better about completely betraying Isa’s trust. 

As she stood behind Florence, she couldn’t help but tear up. Florence had a special power that as soon as she stepped on stage, she was full of magic, beauty, and infinite strength despite her failing body and aching mind. With a smile and a face full of glitter, she held the audience captive in her luminous power for a full two hour set. Isa watched as Florence skipped back and forth, singing her heart out in perfect tune, and couldn’t help but realize that if she wanted to continue bearing witness to Florence’s beauty for years to come, she was going to have to give Florence a difficult choice. 

—

_ May 2020 _

_ Highgate  _

Her grandmother’s house is lonely.

It is a shell of what it used to be, completely empty after decades of holding beautiful furniture and colorful decor. The fifth floor that Isa had been gifted a few years before she passed still holds a boxspring and mattress on the floor, along with a dresser, an old record player, and a few vinyls, but beyond that, the place is essentially empty. 

Her parent’s house in Aldeburgh was getting too cramped to live in; she could only take the makeshift duvet mattress for so long before her back started to give her enough trouble that she knew it was time to get going.

She regrets breaking the lease of her place in Peckham now; if only she had known that she’d miraculously end up in London only months after making the grand move to L.A. 

The other major problem is the fact that half her belongings are still out in Los Angeles. Clothing, her keyboards, random documents that she probably should have taken with her, are all still sitting in the bedroom of her friend’s house. 

_ Fuck, his plants are probably dying _ , she thinks as a sidenote to her own problems.

If there was a way to get on a plane back to the U.S., she would, without hesitation. But now, not only is it incredibly stupid and dangerous to fly, she couldn’t cross the border even if she wanted to, even with the work visa she had gone through so much trouble to secure.

If her little studio in Crystal Palace had a working bathroom, she’d probably say fuck it and move into the dilapidated futon in the corner of the downstairs. 

It doesn’t, though, which leaves her with the _lowkey_ haunted house in Highgate. 

As she’s making lunch with some of her leftovers from last night, her phone starts buzzing. 

_ Florence _ .

“Hey, Flo,” she says kindly, her demeanor towards her a little more warm after all of their texting over the past week.    


“Hey, Iz. How are you?”   


Isa moves her head back and forth, trying to decide just how truthful she should be. “I’m—alright. Yeah, I’m doing okay. Back in Highgate now, just trying to get settled.” She curses under her breath as she burns herself on the old stove. 

“Gotcha,” Florence says awkwardly through the line.    


“How are you doing, Flo?”   


“I’m good. Just a few virtual meetings, not much, really.” There is a nearly imperceptible pause that Isa manages to pick up on, and immediately she instinctively knows what’s coming next. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”   


“Hmm, what’s that?” Isa says, running her bright red finger under cold water. 

“This is going to sound completely fucking crazy, but I know you don’t have a lot of people around here,” Florence begins, secretly hoping Isa will pick up on what she’s trying to say. 

“I’m sure it won’t,” Isa replies, wrapping a towel around the injured finger before taking her plate of food and moving it to the counter across the way. 

“I actually just put a lot of my old clothes in storage, which means I have a guest room again,” she begins hesitantly. “You’re welcome to it if you’d like, I thought it might be nice for you to have a working kitchen and a furnished place,” she says, trying to ignore the fact that they’re both incredibly lonely, and instead give Isa some concrete reasons as to why Camberwell would be beneficial for her.

As much as it pains her to admit it, Isa feels a huge sense of relief that she doesn’t have to be indefinitely alone in the middle of a pandemic. 

“That would be really,  _ really _ nice, Flo,” she says. “To be honest, this house feels haunted.”   


Florence laughs a little bit. “Well, you know the address,” she says. “Your room will be ready whenever you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek we're getting close to the real story. Also, is anyone waiting on an update for Under? I'll write it if people want (and I willllll eventually finish it for my own sanity) but if not I'm going to leave that alone for now. Just let me know! I hope you're all well! xx
> 
> (ps comments make me write faster ;)


	5. The Vodka Years: 2013-2014

_September, 2013_

_Camberwell_

Isa really thought that overdosing and getting as close as one could get to death would stop it. 

She thought that her begging in tears would stop it.

She thought that her _younger sister_ begging in tears would stop it. 

She thought that her own mother, standing up at her daughter’s 27th birthday party and begging her friends to keep her alive, maybe, _just maybe_ , would stop it. 

It didn’t work though. None of it fucking worked. Isa had tried everything, talked to everyone, called every psychiatrist and rehabilitation center in the U.K.— _fuck_ , she had even gone and gotten sober _herself_ —and none of it was enough to keep Florence from continuing to destroy herself.

The first time Florence refused to get help, Isa was sympathetic. She knew it was a difficult and touchy subject, and she wanted to support Florence, not subject her to her every request. 

When she refused help after the overdose though, and then again when she relapsed, and yet _again_ after finding Florence unconscious in her bathroom, Isa had enough. The emotional toll of watching the person she loved the most climb closer and closer to death's door had taken nearly everything out of her. Although she loved Florence, she was not willing to sacrifice her soul for the drugs and alcohol that Florence insisted kept her alive. 

She had given her a full spreadsheet of options, promised to see her often, and lovingly held her through more comedowns that she would like to remember. 

When Florence continuously said “no” though, Isa took it upon herself to write Florence a long letter explaining, as nicely as she could, that her options were to accept help or to never see her again. Writing those words hurt beyond belief, but if Isa trusted anything, it was Florence’s love for her. Isa couldn’t imagine Florence giving her up for anything, even the substances that kept her personal demons at arms-length. 

On a rare afternoon where Florence was completely lucid, Isa pulled the letter out of her purse, and with tears in her eyes, handed it over and then promptly left Florence’s house, knowing full-well it may be the last time she ever set foot in it. Though she thought it was stupid, she took a big breath before closing the door behind her and setting out into London. She wanted to remember all of the little things, and that included the scent of pine and vanilla that permeated every part of the house. 

She got back to Highgate an hour later, and surprisingly, there was not a single notification on her phone. Knowing Florence’s emotional ways, she was expecting there to be a flood of missed calls and texts.

Two weeks later, and she still never heard anything back. 

She spent the majority of that time sitting in her bed, crying herself to sleep surrounded by tissues and empty cups of tea. Her head continuously felt like it might split open from all the tears, and she longed for the days when she had the strength to drink herself into oblivion without getting sick. 

One evening, finally reaching a point of exhaustion tinged with a bit of boredom, Isa opened her laptop. She scrolled and bounced from website to website, clicking on photos, articles, and video links. Eventually, one of them led her to Youtube, where a recommended video titled “Get Lucky / Florence Welch” sat waiting for her. It had only been uploaded the previous night. Her hand betrayed her mind screaming no, and clicked on the little thumbnail. 

Immediately she was met with the image of an inebriated Florence screaming along to a house band, barely able to keep herself upright. She was wearing a dress that Isa remembered buying her in a vintage shop in New York City their first ever trip to the states together. It all seems like a distant dream as she watches Florence take a shot and then carelessly toss the glass over her shoulder. As soon as Florence stumbled trying to take a few simple steps once the song had ended, Isa reflexively slammed her laptop closed and once again burst into tears. 

—

_May, 2020_

_Camberwell_

A little over two hours after burning herself on her stove in Highgate, Isa is in front of the door she had last walked out of almost seven years ago now. Everything is strangely familiar; the vines growing across the front, the faint smell of wildflowers, the cracked, crooked step up to the door that she had forgotten about and nearly tripped on. She has to take a moment to breathe it all in before knocking on the door. 

She hears soft footsteps and before she has time to brace herself, Florence’s pale, glowing face is in front of hers.

“Hi, hi, hi, come in,” she says with a faint but genuine smile, grabbing the heavy tote bag that is slipping out of Isa’s hand. Isa graciously smiles and enters the living room. The scent of pine is stronger than she remembers, but otherwise, the place looks and feels the exact same as it did almost seven years ago. 

“Thanks,” Isa says quietly as Florence puts the bag next to Isa’s suitcase. Right next to it, there is a pile of books, the top one being a collection of Robert Mapplethorpe’s photos that was undoubtedly rebound by her father, his signature gold-stamped letters gracing the hard, dark-blue cover. 

Isa feels her heart drop a bit but smiles anyway, and then finally allows herself to take a good look at Florence. She is wearing what she wore almost every day in—a pair of thin, baggy satin trousers with a plain t-shirt lazily tucked into them. Almost instinctively, she feels herself stretch out her arms towards the taller woman. 

Graciously, Florence reciprocates, stepping closer to Isa. “How are you Flo?” Isa asks, tears pressing on her eyes as Florence firmly runs her hand up and down her back. Her voice cracks a little bit and she curses herself, not wanting this odd reunion to be any more awkward than it needs to be. 

Under her hands, Florence feels Isa’s breath hitch; Isa had never been very good at concealing her emotions, and apparently, that hasn’t changed. Catching onto the fact that Isa was feeling a bit overwhelmed, Florence gives her a simple response, consciously doing her best to let Isa just be. 

“I’m doing okay, Iz,” she says plainly, loosening her grip on Isa. “Tea?”

A few minutes later, there is a cup of Chamomile tea and a small piece of toast with raspberry smashed on it in front of her. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you remember this,” Isa says, smiling at the memory of showing Florence that freshly smashed berries were far superior to any sort of jarred jam. Though it was originally her mother’s trick, Isa had been quick to take credit for it when Florence herself realized how life changing it was. 

“Of course,” Florence says, sitting down with her own slice of toast and coffee. “I just assumed you still like Chamomile, I can get in something else if you want.”

Isa shakes her head after taking a sip of the tea. “No, no, I love chamomile—I honestly forgot you don’t even drink tea, thank you for getting this.”

Florence smiles, then hesitates before bringing up a memory. “Do you remember that time when we were both _so_ fucked up and I couldn’t sleep? And you tried to force-feed me chamomile tea and I tried to drink it even though it tastes like flowers?”

Isa racks her brain, trying to locate the memory, but falls short. “I tried to give you _tea_ ? You _hate_ tea,” she laughs. 

Florence feels a little pang of pain—that morning was the first time _I love you’s_ were exchanged all those years ago. She feels her stomach sink as she realizes that Isa has probably forgotten all sorts of things. 

Florence quickly manages to gloss over it, though. “Right, it was probably before you knew better.” She stirs the small spoon sitting in her cup of coffee, desperately trying to convince herself that inviting Isa to stay with her wasn’t the _worst_ idea of all time.

“Oh wow, this is crazy,” Isa says, walking into the small room on the second floor of Florence’s house after they had finished their drinks and caught up on the basics.

The room that had once been filled to the brim with clothes is now empty, except for a bed with a beautiful, embroidered quilt, a small side table, a dresser, an empty clothing rack, and a mirror on the opposite wall. There are various framed photos of random people and things: Isa remembers some of them from the antique store they had once frequented in Crystal Palace. 

Beneath her feet, Isa notices that the same rug is still in place. Her mind flashes to the morning sex they once had on it on one of Florence’s birthdays, after Florence had essentially strip-teased while getting ready for the day.

“Yeah, it’s a bit different,” Florence says, leaning against the frame of the doorway, snapping Isa back to reality. She looks a little older than she did back then, but the expressive corners of her mouth that had once held gentle smiles and angry screams are all the same. “I’m probably going to move house sometime soon, and I figured the first step was sorting out all the clothes.”

“It looks nice, Flo,” Isa says genuinely, running her hand over the quilt and trying to ignore the burning in her chest. “It’s very adult of you, having a proper guest room.” 

Florence tilts her head back and laughs, thinking about how horrified she used to feel still living with her parents. “Yeah, yeah, I suppose,” she says, turning her attention back to Isa. “Here, let me help,” she adds as Isa opens her suitcase and begins putting her things into the drawers.

She pulls out some sweaters and carefully hangs them up one by one. She returns to the suitcase and goes to grab some shirts, but as she reaches in, she brushes Isa’s hand and Isa instinctively pulls it away with a little gasp. 

“You okay?” Florence asks with concern as Isa holds her hand close to her body with a grimace on her face. 

“Yeah, it’s fine—I fucking burnt it earlier on the stove and completely forgot about it,” she says, putting it in front of her face to inspect. 

“Here, let me see,” Florence says, gently grabbing the injured hand in hers. 

Isa’s eyes immediately land on Florence’s crooked left ring finger, the memory of her breaking it on that bus burning like a stab wound to her brain. She remembers the tears, and the screaming, and then more tears and screaming that had happened in Antwerp only a little over a year ago now.

“Fuck, you got it good,” Florence says, lightly running her finger over the shiny, purple skin. “Let me wrap it up.”

“It’s fine, Flo, really—” Isa says almost apologetically. 

“Come on,” Florence says, confidently taking her other hand and leading her down the stairs. 

“Here, I use this all the time,” Florence says, putting a thin layer of ointment on top of the burn as Isa leans against the countertop. 

“Thanks,” Isa mumbles, weird feelings rushing back as Florence’s hands run over hers. 

“It’s really no problem,” Florence says as she wraps a piece of gauze around the finger and then covers it with tape.

When she’s done with her handiwork, Florence places her hand on Isa’s arm and looks deeply into her eyes. They hold eye contact for a second too long, and Isa is taken aback from the strong instinct to kiss her—she was not expecting it, and she immediately steps away, silently wondering if staying with Florence was the _worst_ idea of all time.

—

January, 2014

Camberwell

It was the first time Florence had brought Joel home, and she was having major regrets. She looked down to the place Isa used to lie as Joel closed his eyes in ecstasy, and wanted to cry right then and there at all of the memories as she did her best to maintain composure. 

After Isa had left her heartbroken and in need of a warm body to cling to, Florence quickly found her way to Joel. They had met on the set of a music video years ago, and he was always around the usual South London crowd. He was nice, and charming, and strangely reminded Florence so much of the little things Isa used to do before things fell apart. 

A little less than a month after Isa had stormed out of her house, Florence finally made a move on Joel during a drunken night out, and he was not hesitant to finally act on the crush he had kept to himself for years out of fear of being unprofessional.

As they got to know each other, he was shocked that Florence “ _had been single”_ for so many years—she chalked it up to being so busy, and was sure to remind him no less than once a day how lucky she was to have him. 

He was good to her—he held her through come-downs, teary anxiety attacks, and nights that she struggled to find sleep. She was equally sweet back, albeit a bit messy as she navigated living life outside of a tour bus. She struggled to wrap her head around the concept that if she ruined her house, there was not going to be a new one to move onto. 

Through the mess though, Joel stuck by her side, figuring that it was just a difficult transition to make. He had worked in the entertainment industry just as long as Florence had, and he was no stranger to understanding how difficult living a stable life as a performer is. 

Through the struggle, Florence was sure to make sure he knew how much she loved him. There were plenty of home-cooked meals, and interesting adventures out late at night, and more impromptu hookups than he can even recall. 

He started to have doubts, however, when he swore he could hear Florence choke back a sob from her position on top of him that night.

“You okay, Flo?” he asked, his eyes finally snapping open after he felt a tear fall on his bare skin. 

Florence kept her head tilted back, making a conscious effort to hide her teary eyes from him. This was the first time she was having sex with someone other than Isa in her bed, and she could barely stand to hear Joel’s voice reverberate against the walls that once reflected Isa’s quiet laughter. 

“I’m fine,” she managed to reply in a neutral tone. She did her best to pick up where they had left off, but once Joel saw her shaky breaths through her bony ribs, he slowly sat up and put a hand on her waist, gently coaxing her off of him. 

With that, Florence broke down into sobs, curling herself into a ball and crying into her hands as she rested her back against the headboard. She felt like her reality was starting to crack from the inside out, and that if she cried hard enough, her problems might just disappear. 

Joel’s heart was beating out of his chest—he had no idea why she was crying so suddenly after a nice night in. “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked sweetly, running a hand over her cheek. “You okay?”

Florence just waved him off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just—it’s nothing,” she managed to breathe out after a deep breath. “I, ehm—can you go?” she asked suddenly, not wanting him to see her in her current state. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he said apologetically, though not quite knowing what exactly he was apologizing for. “I’ll call you in the morning?”

“Yeah, that’s fine I’m really sorry, I don’t know what it is,” she said, her voice cracking at the end as she struggled to get in air.

“It’s okay,” he replied sweetly as he pulled on his pants and trousers. “Are you sure you’re okay? I really don’t want to leave you like this,” he asked, his own hands shaking as he pulled the covers over Florence’s still-naked frame. She definitively shook her head yes, not bothering to look up at him as her mind raced around visions of Isa. He leaned over the bed to gently kiss Florence on the head, and then left without another word. 

Things got progressively weirder with Joel after that. He became distant, knowing that Florence’s mind was elsewhere any time they were together. Her eyes would wander around the periphery as if they were searching for something that would never appear. Her normally bubbly personality folded into her, leaving her as a shell of the girl he had met years ago.

Florence combated this sinking feeling by drowning it in drinks. At first, it was easy to write off the long, messy nights out as making up for lost time during tour. She was in her mid-twenties, dealing with a horrible breakup, and she kept trying to assure herself that this was the normal reaction to all that was going on in her life. 

What certainly wasn’t a normal reaction, though, was when she showed up to Joel’s flat one night, bottle of vodka in hand after he gently told her he thought they should take a break so Florence could have some time to herself. He had seen how badly she was treating herself, and he feared that by allowing it, he was taking part in Florence destroying herself and her talent. His decision was entirely selfless, but it felt hard knowing that Florence was probably incredibly hurt by the suggestion.

Florence knew he meant well, but deep in her heart, Florence also knew that he saw the same exact girl Isa saw, and he made the decision to run away as fast as he could the same way Isa did. It hurt her beyond words that Isa wasn’t alone in thinking she had a real problem. As she pounded on his door, desperate for some sort of reassurance as rain washed down her face, it was becoming more and more apparent that she should have corrected her wrongs months ago when Isa gave her the chance. 

“Joel, let me in, I can be better,” she said tearfully when she heard the quiet sound of a lock.

She was met with silence.

“Joel, I promise I can stop, I just need to talk to you.” Her entire body was shaking, and her lungs burned as she inhaled the wet, freezing January air. Her soaking wet hair was sticking to her face as she continued to pound on the door.

“Flo, go home,” he said gently through the door, his heart being torn apart a little bit with every shaking sob from outside his door. 

“Why won’t you go out with me?” Florence asked rhetorically, already knowing the answer as she let out a pathetic cry.

Eventually, he opened the door, and was met by a soaking wet Florence. Her face was pale and red, and it was hard to distinguish the tears from rain drops. He gently pried the bottle of vodka out of her hand, pulled her inside, and wrapped her in a hug. He respected himself too much to continue feeding into her problem, but it certainly didn’t mean he wanted her drowning in the rain outside.

“Flo, this isn’t working,” he said quietly as he stroked her cold, wet hair. “You need to get help.” 

All Florence could do in response was let out a sob as her body went limp.

He got her a dry towel and wrapped her up, sitting her down on his couch while he called her a cab.

That was the last time she saw Joel. 

—

_May, 2020_

_Camberwell_

“Flynn asked if I could take his dog out for a walk, I guess he’s running late in the studio,” Florence said from her spot near the front door, bending down to pull a pair of inconspicuous Nike’s over her feet.

“ _Flynn_ Flynn?” Isa asked, raising an eyebrow from her seat at the kitchen table. “Are you two…?”

Florence looked up, a bit confused for a second before feeling blood rush to her cheeks. “Oh _, no_. Yeah, just—no.” 

“...but you still have the key to his flat?”

Florence bit her lip. “Yeah, it's… complicated,” Florence responded, leaving it at that. 

“Sounds like it.” 

Grimacing, Florence picks up her bag and slings it around her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Actually, do you mind if I join?” Isa asks quickly, standing up and throwing her plate in the sink. “I kind of wanted to get out anyway.” 

Hesitantly, Florence nods her head, internally laughing at the absurdity of her ex-girlfriend coming along to walk her ex-boyfriend’s dog. 

“This place is the same as I remember it,” Isa says from behind her mask, looking around at the familiar buildings and parks. 

“Really?” Florence asks, puzzled. “I feel like everything’s changed.” She suddenly remembers the day she met her sister for lunch, barely able to navigate to a nearby cafe without getting lost. 

Isa shakes her head with a small smile. “It all looks the same to me. I feel like I still know this place like the back of my hand.”

They walk silently for a while, stopping only to hit crosswalk indicators with their elbows.

“When did you move here again?” Isa asks, forgetting the exact timeline of those years. 

“2012, I think?” Florence replies. 

Suddenly, it makes perfect sense as to why she didn’t remember her own neighborhood, and she falls silent as they finish their walk across London.

“So when did you and Flynn end things? I know it was before tour,” Isa asks, watching as Florence struggles to get the leash on Flynn’s sweet golden retriever. Isa worries that there is a hint of resentment in her voice, but if there is, Florence doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I think it was that April, and to be perfectly honest, I am not entirely certain he understands the concept of _ending_ ,” she responds with a roll of her eyes and an annoyed little smirk. Florence is crouched down, and the panting dog has one paw up on her shoulder. “You’re very cute but your father is a bit much,” Florence says as the dog licks her face. She flinches, but laughs as Isa smiles from across the room before heading back out.

“He’s cute,” Isa says as the dog saunters right at Florence’s side. Based on just how comfortable the dog is with her, Isa knows that they must have spent a good deal of time together.

“Yeah, he was my little buddy for a while,” Florence says, reaching down to pat the dog’s head as they wait at a light. “He was just a puppy when Flynn and I started going out.” 

“So he’s what, five or so?” Florence quickly does the math in her head, and then nods. 

“Yeah. Time flies.” 

They spend a while walking in silence before Isa asks another question. 

“So what is Flynn like?”

Florence laughs, as if to say _are you serious?_ before turning back to Isa. “He’s fine,” she replies plainly, not wanting to venture to wherever Isa is going with this. 

“He’s _fine_?”

Florence nods her head as she carefully maneuvers around a pole. “Yeah.”

Isa smiles and shakes her head. 

“ _What_?” Florence asks with a smile. “I don’t know what kind of response you want.”

“I dunno, I just—I want to know what he’s like.”

“Well, he, ehm—he likes football—”

“ _He likes football_ !” Isa laughs, turning to Florence. “Very original.” 

Florence confusedly smiles, suddenly feeling somewhat protective of her quirky ex. 

“I mean, _yeah_. But he’s good, he was good to me.”

Isa nods, and she has a feeling that she can only identify as jealous floating around her stomach, as much as it pains her to admit it. 

“Hmm,” Isa responds, seemingly ready to drop the subject. “A clean breakup, very grownup of you,” Isa says, _immediately_ regretting her choice of words as soon as they leave her throat.

Florence looks up, biting her lip. 

“Oh, no—I didn’t mean—” Isa says, frantically trying to right her wrong.

Florence just smiles, shaking her head. “It’s fine. Really, don’t worry about it,” she says with a forgiving little laugh. 

Isa breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry.”

Again, Florence just smiles, but this time Isa can’t tell if she recognizes just a hint of sadness pulling at the corners of her lips or if she’s just seeing things. “Iz,” she begins, grabbing her hand before quickly squeezing and releasing it. “We’re good.”

—

_May, 2014_

_Peckham_

Markus finished writing something on a piece of tape before filling an empty glass with water and sticking the tape on the front of it. 

Forcefully, he set it down in front of Florence, who was resting her head on top of her arms at the table in the small studio. 

With a groan, she lifted her head, and focused her eyes on the container in front of her. 

_This is for drinking, not writing about_ his messy handwriting spelled out.

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” Florence said after deciphering the letters, forcing herself to sit up in the chair. 

“I read the songs,” he said, sitting down across from her with the journal she had just bought for the sole purpose of writing down the edited versions of her words. When writing with Isa, she was always able to just hand her personal diaries over, but with Markus, she felt the need to keep everything _somewhat_ clean. 

He flipped open to one page to a song Florence had written about submerging herself in a bathtub before delving into a metaphorical analysis of how water could either absolve her from her wrongs, or kill her. He pushed the journal towards her and raised an eyebrow. “You really think I’m going to let you record this?”

They had already reached beyond the point of trying to be polite with one another, and Florence angrily sighed. “That’s my style of writing.”

“Oh really?” he asked with a smirk, taking the journal back and flipping to a new page full of lyrics about drowning in rain. “I think you’re just not being creative at this point.”

“This is what my life _feels_ like. Drowning. I don’t know what to tell you.” 

Markus just shook his head with a little laugh. “You need help then.”

Florence deeply inhaled thinking about the mandatory therapy that was scheduled for later in the day that Markus had no clue about; mandatory therapy that was the only thing holding together her relationship with her sister. She shook her head while thinking about the absurdity of it all before putting on her best sarcastic smile.

“ _Yes_ , I know. Thanks for that.”

Treatment hadn’t been as bad as Florence expected; detoxing was probably the worst of it, but Grace had let her move into her flat for the two weeks it took her to get through it in February. Grace was strict with Florence—she was not allowed to leave except for their daily morning walks and scheduled appointments, and she was to have her phone location on at all times. Grace was sure to keep all of Florence’s favorite foods in the kitchen, and they had a good time cooking meals together before retiring to the couch to watch television at night. 

It was the most time Grace had spent with Florence since they had lived at home together, and as much as it hurt her to watch Florence be overcome with shaking and horrific pain, she was glad that she was finally escaping the horrible cycle she had gotten herself into. For all the hell Florence had put her and Isa through, Grace was relieved that Florence would be able to salvage at least one of those relationships. 

After a few weeks, Florence started therapy. Grace had been adamant that it would help, though Florence wasn’t so sure. 

She was particularly startled by the first question. “ _Why did you stop drinking_?”

It would have taken her hours to answer that question fully, but instead, she went with the simplest answer she could come up with. 

“My friend texted me to see how I was doing.”

She never mentioned that her friend was in fact an ex, or that the text had come through just as she was beginning to get blackout in a loud club, or that she never bothered responding. It didn’t seem to matter though as the therapist went on with her questions. 

“This one is good,” Markus said suddenly, snapping Florence out of her wandering thoughts. “I might allow you one water song.” Again, he slid her the journal, which was now open to a page titled “ _Shipwreck_.” It was a song about taking something she cared about dearly, something that had taken years to build, and then destroying it in her path. 

It was about Isa, but Markus didn’t need to know that. 

“ _Really_?” she asked indignantly, still staring at the glass of water in front of her. That song was still a little too raw for her liking, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t included it. 

“It’s good, you know. Expressing yourself instead of completely hiding in a metaphor. I like it.”

The next morning, Florence didn’t want to go in. She wanted to lie in bed and lament that she had managed to completely ruin her life and now had to sit with the consequences. She also didn’t like that Markus was beginning to realize that the songs went far beyond her breakup with Joel— _that_ was a terrifying development. 

She relented though, and got dressed in a pair of leggings and the blue anorak she had grown attached to after stealing it from a party last year. She packed her lunch of a tuna sandwich and vegetables in a little bag that she threw in her backpack along with her laptop and journals, and then was off into the streets of London on her bike. 

When she arrived, Markus was nodding his head along to something playing in his headphones. 

“What are you listening to? Florence asked curiously as she put her things down and got settled at the table for the day. 

“Isabella Summers sent over some demos you apparently recorded last year—why didn’t you mention you already have _six_ songs basically ready to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew finally got this posted! I've been really focused on writing some future scenes and it took me a while to circle back and finally finish these—sorry!
> 
> Hope you're all doing well! Comments are always appreciated :) x


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